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J 

THREE KNOTS 

A Mystery 


BY 

RICHARD PARKER 

»» 


NEW YORK 

THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


By 


Copyright, 1924, 


J 


THE MACAULAY COMPANY 


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Printed in the United States of America 


OCT -9 *24 


©Cl'A 807257 V 







CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

The Night of the Sixteenth 




PAGE 

11 

II 

About the Ashcombes 





21 

III 

Concerns Irene Baxter . 





31 

IV 

Food for Gossip 





41 

V 

Who Killed Ella Ashcombe 

: ? 




52 

VI 

Surprising Developments 





61 

VII 

Through the Mists . 





73 

VIII 

Mr. Octavius Milo 





82 

IX 

The Dancer in Yellow . 





91 

X 

A Woman’s Confession 





*102 

XI 

Among the Heather . 





109 

XII 

The Big Splash 





120 

XIII 

The Stranger in Ireland 





128 

XIV 

The Flame. 





136 

XV 

Yvonne’s Idea .... 





144 

XVI 

Marner the Mysterious . 





154 

XVII 

The Unsolved Problem . 





162 

XVIII 

A Woman’s Deductions 





171 

XIX 

Concerns Certain Usurers 





179 


V 







VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XX 

At the Footbridge 




PAGE 

. 189 

XXI 

Was It a Clue? 




. 198 

XXII 

“The Round 0“ 




. 207 

XXIII 

Whose Was the Hand? . 




. 214 

XXIV 

Hard Hit!. 




. 224 

XXV 

More Curious Facts . 




. 235 

XXVI 

Another Sensation 




. 244 

XXVII 

On Kingston Bridge . 




. 251 

XXVIII 

Pursuit of the Truth 




. 261 

XXIX 

Important Developments 




. 271 

XXX 

The Knots Again . 




. 282 

XXXI 

More About the Ashcombes 




. 291 

XXXII 

The Knots Untied 




. 300 









THREE KNOTS 





THREE KNOTS 


CHAPTER I 

THE NIGHT OF THE SIXTEENTH 

“There is a mystery about this affair that I cannot 
fathom, a complete and inscrutible mystery.” 

Silence followed these words. The Chief Constable, 
to whom the remark had been more particularly ad¬ 
dressed, looked down for a moment, and then stared 
hard at the blank wall at the extreme end of the room. 
Again his eyes met the Coroner’s. His lips parted and 
he seemed about to speak, when the Coroner, not notic¬ 
ing this, went on: 

“If anybody here,” he said in a solemn voice, “has 
an opinion to express, or can suggest any solution, 
let him, or her, do so now. Failing this, the verdict 
must be that this most unfortunate young woman’s 
death is due to strangulation, and that she has been 
brutally done to death by some person or persons 
unknown.” 

He cast a questioning glance around, but still no 
one spoke. The only sound audible was the sobbing of 
Mrs. Ashcombe, the victim’s mother, and of Charlotte, 
her maid, whose evidence had been taken. 

“Then you have nothing further to add, Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe?” he asked suddenly, focussing his gaze upon 
the weeping widow. 


11 


12 


THREE KNOTS 


She looked up slowly and her tear-laden eyes met the 
Coroner’s cold stare. With a shake of the head she 
replied, almost inaudibly: 

“Nothing, I can think of nothing.” 

The Coroner bit his lip, and once more looked about 
him. Swiftly his glance passed from face to face in 
keen, searching scrutiny. He looked hard at the Chief 
Constable. The man stared boldly back. His mouth 
was tightly shut now. Whatever he might some 
moments before have contemplated saying, he no longer 
meant to say. 

What had happened may be briefly told. 

Some two-and-a-half years previously Mrs. Ash- 
combe and her pretty daughter, Ella, had come to live 
in the neighbourhood. Who they were, and whence 
they came, nobody exactly knew. They had bought 
an old picturesque cottage within a mile or two of 
Shadcombe, and overlooking the sea, midway between 
that town and Dawlish, to be precise, and close to a 
sleepy old-world hamlet, Holcombe by name. 

Some of the residents in both places had called upon 
them, and all had pronounced the w 7 idow to be a charm¬ 
ing woman, cultivated, well-read, and intelligent. 
Apparently, too, she had travelled, while the fact that 
she could read and speak several foreign tongues had 
impressed the local residents considerably. She seemed 
to be “comfortably circumstanced,” as they expressed 
it, also a woman of exceptional refinement. 

Her daughter, Ella, everybody liked exceedingly. 
Even the admittedly pretty girls of Shadcombe sang 
her praises, a thing they rarely did when a stranger, 
at least as good-looking as themselves, came to live in 
the vicinity. 

“She is so utterly sweet, one can’t help loving her,” 


THE NIGHT OF THE SIXTEENTH 13 


was the sort of remark heard at tea-parties in the dis¬ 
trict when her name chanced to be mentioned. True, 
the encomium was sometimes tempered by some such 
corollary as “I wonder who the Ashcombes are, and 
where they really come from?” or “It seems strange 
we know so little about either of them,” but that was 
only to be expected under the circumstances. 

Occasionally, too, conjectures would be hazarded. 
Somebody “had heard,” or “it was said,” that the 
widow’s life had been none too happy; that her husband 
had “drunk secretly” before his death, and so forth. 

Still, Mrs. Ashcombe and Ella’s popularity had been 
general in the neighbourhood during the two-and-a-half 
years they had lived there. Then one day. . . . 

It was a terrible story, that had been related in 
detail at the inquest. 

Ella Ashcombe had, it appeared, been in the habit 
of bicycling over to Shadcombe early every morning, 
being engaged in some charitable work there, and of 
riding back to Holcombe in the evening. She had, 
whenever possible, lunched at one of the leading hotels 
with a young solicitor in practice in Shadcombe, Gerald 
Grey, at one time of the Diplomatic Service, and resi¬ 
dent in London. 

One evening, the night of the 16th of February, a 
very rough and windy night, with rain descending in 
sheets, Mrs. Ashcombe had been telegraphed for from 
Exeter to come at once to a dying friend who had, the 
message ran, expressed an earnest wish to see her again 
before the end. The doctor had signed the message 
after adding an earnest hope that Mrs. Ashcombe 
would come in all haste, as her friend had not long 
to live. 

Mrs. Ashcombe had, accordingly, started out at once 


u 


THREE KNOTS 


for Exeter in her car, leaving Ella alone in Gareth 
Cottage, with their old and faithful servant, Charlotte. 
The cook, a recent importation from Torquay, had, 
unfortunately that very morning, given notice in a fit 
of temper, and gone home. 

When, next morning, Charlotte had gone upstairs 
to awaken her young mistress and take her her tea, 
she had found the door of the bedroom locked. 
Unable to get a reply to her repeated calling and 
knocking, she had, suddenly terrified, rushed out of 
the house, and raised the alarm. 

Upon the door being forced open, Ella Ashcombe 
had been found lying in bed, quite dead, and the room 
was in great disorder. At once the police had been 
summoned by telephone, and then the shocking dis¬ 
covery had been made that the poor girl had been 
strangled. Round her neck a bit of string was still 
tied tightly, a length of tarred twine with three rather 
curious knots in it. 

It is unnecessary to recount the searching inquiries 
which followed. It is enough to say that no clue of any 
sort could be discovered which might have helped the 
police in their task of finding the murderer or mur¬ 
derers, nor could any trace be found of the assassin 
in either the house itself or the grounds. By what 
manner he had entered the cottage it was, of course, 
also impossible to say, though it seemed clear that he 
must have entered by the bedroom window and gone 
out the same way. 

Only, when the body was found, about seven o’clock 
in the morning, it was already cold, from which the 
police not unnaturally inferred that the crime must 
have been committed some hours previously. 

That, condensed, was the story narrated at the 


THE NIGHT OF THE SIXTEENTH 15 


inquest. It was, the Coroner said, quite the most 
astonishing and baffling mystery he had ever had to 
deal with. Neither Mrs. Ashcombe nor her daughter 
were known to have an enemy in the world, and as 
apparently nothing had been stolen from the house, no 
motive for the crime could be assigned. Naturally 
rumours, the majority of which were of a fantastic 
description, had, he said, become rife in the vicinity 
within the past day or two, but he felt sure nobody of 
intelligence would pay attention to them. 

Most silent of all the witnesses throughout the 
inquiry had been Gerald Grey, the young solicitor to 
whom Ella had for six months or so been engaged to 
be married. Gloomy, morose, almost taciturn, he had 
sat there with his face between his fists, his elbows on 
the table, apparently deep in thought. Only when 
addressed had he spoken, and then he had replied in 
monosyllables. So strange, indeed, had his bearing 
been, that more than once the Coroner had been unable 
to resist the temptation to try to draw him out. 

“If you will allow me to say so, Mr. Grey” he had 
observed quite caustically, “this terrible affair appears 
to distress you less than one would have expected it 
to do under the circumstances. You were, I under¬ 
stand, betrothed to the deceased?” 

“Yes,” came the monosyllabic answer. 

“Then do you not feel this tragedy acutely?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yet you have no comment whatsoever to make 
upon it?” 

“No.” 

The Coroner, baffled, had shrugged his shoulders. 

“Oh, very well,” he had ended dryly. “Gentlemen, 
I have nothing further to say.” 


16 


THREE KNOTS 


“But I have a word to say!” Grey had suddenly 
exclaimed in quite a different tone, rising abruptly 
from his seat. “I should like to say that in my opinion 
you have spoken a great deal too much throughout 
these proceedings, and made some most indiscreet 
comments.” 

To this gratuitous insult the Coroner had paid no 
heed, and soon afterwards the jury had found their 
verdict and risen. 

As they solemnly filed out one by one into the street, 
a weather-beaten man of uncertain age, wearing cordu¬ 
roys and a frayed jersey, and smoking a short pipe, 
eyed them with a bovine stare. 

When the last had passed him by, he spat viciously 
upon the pavement, and began to mutter to himself. 
Then he stamped away with uncertain gait, to disap¬ 
pear some moments later behind the swing doors of 
a public-house. 

That evening the local police again reviewed all the 
facts of the case. With a certain feeling of deference, 
which they would not have admitted, they listened to 
the views expressed by the London detectives who had 
arrived in the town on the day the crime had been 
discovered. These detectives, as is their wont, immedi¬ 
ately dismissed as “most improbable” every possible 
solution advanced by the local constabulary. Their 
own opinions, however, they kept carefully to them¬ 
selves. Upon only one point were they and the 
“locals,” as they termed them, in agreement. Whoever 
had committed the crime must have had some strong 
motive for his action. 

Finally they gathered together the few shreds of 
evidence in an abortive attempt to piece them into one. 

First, there was the length of tarred twine with the 


THE NIGHT OF THE SIXTEENTH 17 


three knots in it, with which the victim had been 
strangled. 

Then there was the unaccounted-for jagged cut on 
the middle finger of the victim’s left hand. 

Also to be taken into account was the fact that the 
assassin, man or woman, had been clearly an active 
person, for in order to enter the window the culprit 
had clambered up a rain-pipe, scraping the wall-plaster 
on both sides of it. 

And while they talked, and talked, repeating plati¬ 
tude after platitude, and insisting upon the accuracy 
of statements the obviousness of which should have 
been patent to all, less than a mile away a young man 
lay upon a bed, sobbing his heart out. At intervals 
he groaned aloud; but he was alone and he believed 
that none heard him. 

Nor would any of those present at the inquest that 
morning have believed, had they seen him now, lying 
there rent with emotion and racked with grief, that 
this was the morose man who during the proceedings 
had seemingly been so indifferent and callous. 

That, however, was his nature. Almost from his 
childhood his self-control at times when he found him¬ 
self face to face with some deep sorrow, or in moments 
of crisis, had been remarkable. At such times he would 
show no sign whatever of distress. Yet when alone 
again and hidden from the world, he would give way 
completely, opening the flood-gates of his sorrow to 
their widest. 

Gerald Grey was a man of remarkable ability, with 
a public school and a university education. He had 
put his heart and soul into the work when he had 
entered the Diplomatic Service, and it had been a 
great grief to him to be unable to remain in it. But 


18 


THREE KNOTS 


misfortune had overtaken him, or rather his father, 
a doctor by profession, but an inveterate gambler and 
speculator. Year after year the old man had lived 
in the firm hope, which amounted to a conviction, that 
one day he would make a big coup and thus amass at 
a fell swoop, if not a fortune, at any rate a sum suf¬ 
ficient to enable him to abandon medicine, and live out 
the remainder of his life in idle ease. 

Of course, it had not happened. Such events rarely 
do, least of all when they are expected to. As he 
put it, he had taken a “sporting chance”; in other 
words he had staked two-thirds of the whole of his 
capital upon a venture he had been assured by “an 
exceptionally well-informed” friend was “bound to 
jump in the market.” The shares had certainly 
jumped, but they had jumped down. First only a little 
way, then they had crept down, and down, and down, 
until his capital had dwindled almost out of sight. 

There was nothing for it but to sell his house, 
mortgage a little property he possessed, and cut down 
his son’s allowance to a minimum. This stroke of 
ill-luck, as the old man termed it, though in reality it 
was his own stroke of stupidity, his son had borne 
with commendable fortitude. He had not uttered a 
;word of protest—what would have been the use when 
the thing was done, he said to himself. On the con¬ 
trary, he had done his best to cheer his father up, 
and then, with an aching heart and the ambition of his 
life crushed, had withdrawn from the Diplomatic Serv¬ 
ice and manfully set to work to serve his articles in a 
West End solicitor’s office. With little difficulty he 
had passed the examinations, and with what money 
he and his father could scrape together, had set up as 
a solicitor in Shadcombe. 


THE NIGHT OF THE SIXTEENTH 19 


There he had soon become popular. He was capable, 
prompt, tactful, and invariably courteous. Most im¬ 
portant of all, he quickly gained a reputation for 
absolute integrity. In addition, there was that about 
him which inspired confidence. By mothers with daugh¬ 
ters to “get off” he was smiled upon. With transparent 
cunning they strove to ensnare him in matrimonial 
meshes, but he paid not the slightest heed. Their little 
efforts amused him. Indeed, it was not his intention 
to marry at any rate, until he felt the income he was 
earning justified his doing so. He had seen too much 
of “poor” marriages, he would say. No man—this 
was his expressed theory—had a right to marry until 
in a position to support a wife. 

And that he would soon be in that position seemed 
likely as the mothers of daughters were quick to 
realise. His clientele increased rapidly, somewhat to 
his astonishment. 

Then one day he met Ella Ashcombe, and at once 
his theories and his views on matrimony were swept 
away, and with them the hopes of all mothers with 
marriageable daughters, except Mrs. Ashcombe. For 
at their first meeting he fell hopelessly in love with 
Ella, and made up his mind to marry her if she would 
accept him. 

It was past midnight when he at last arose, and 
began to pace the room. 

“My God,” he cried out. “Oh Heaven, why did I 
do it? Why? Why?" 

For some moments he paused, his fingers pressed 
upon his closed eyes. His brain throbbed. His brow 
felt on fire. Then, turning suddenly, he went over to 
his dressing-table. A framed portrait stood there. 


20 


THREE KNOTS 


Taking it up gently with both hands he held it to the 
light, the while gazing down into the eyes which looked 
up so steadfastly into his own. 

And, on a sudden impulse, he pressed the picture 
to his lips. 

Two servant maids sat up in their beds, staring at 
each other with frightened faces. 

“What ought us to du about ut?” one of them said 
at last. 

The other began to cry. She was too upset to reply. 

“Us both heard un,” the first speaker went on. 
“Awe, du stop ut, Mary. Yer’m timid as a mouse. 
What was ut ’e sayde? ‘Heavens, why did I du ut?’ 
Awe, ’tis awful, sure ’nuff. Us ort to inform the 
police. But us baint goin’ tu, be us?” 

The other mopped her eyes with a dirty pocket- 
handkerchief. 

“Naw,” was the only word she could manage to get 
out. “Naw,” she repeated. 

Some minutes later they blew out the candle and 
soon both were fast asleep. 


CHAPTER II 


ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 

Mrs. William Monckton —“Mrs. Willie” as her inti¬ 
mates called her—was generally admitted to be the 
prettiest woman in Shadcombe. 

Now, that is saying a good deal, for, at the time the 
story opens, Shadcombe was renowned far beyond the 
bounds of Devonshire for its pretty girls and handsome 
women. 

“The place is crawling with ’em, bless ’em, it’s 
crawling with ’em,” a retired Colonel, member of the 
Shadcombe Club, had one day remarked with consider¬ 
able emphasis. 

And he spoke only the truth. 

Mrs. Willie Monckton, however, undoubtedly topped 
the bill, and she succeeded in squeezing some measure 
of enjoyment out of life. For her husband, a rich man, 
never stinted her, and he liked her to dress well—which 
she invariably did—and to amuse herself to the best 
of her ability. 

Shadcombe in February, in spite of its pretty 
women, is not the most cheerful place to live in. Some 
of its pleasure-loving aborigines were wont to refer to 
is as “a deadly dull hole,” but it is hardly that. Com¬ 
pared with other seaside resorts of its size, its atmos¬ 
phere is probably neither less exhilarating nor more 
depressing than that of any of them. 

The principal forms of winter diversion, at the time 
21 


22 


THREE KNOTS 


to which reference is made, were whist-drives and 
bridge-parties and tea-parties, with a little mild flirta¬ 
tion sandwiched in between. True, some years before 
there had been a distressing episode. 

But that is another story. Unrefined folk indige¬ 
nous to the town, still snigger when the incident is 
spoken of. That it proved, however, an excellent 
advertisement for the place the District Council will 
admit. 

Of the tea-and-talk parties just mentioned, without 
a doubt the pleasantest and best-appointed were those 
arranged by Mrs. Willie Monckton at her “stately 
residence, lying and being situate,” as the auctioneers 
and estate agents once described it, “on the slope of 
a steep incline upon the outskirts of the town.” 

The majority of these gatherings were more or less 
informal. At that time young men in Shadcombe 
were conspicuous by their absence, but Mrs. Willie 
Monckton made up for the lack of male admiration, 
which emphatically was her due, by gathering about 
her a coterie of young women and pretty girls who 
admired her to the point of adoration. 

It was at one of these “teas” then, on a wet after¬ 
noon towards the end of March, that the Holcombe 
Mystery, as it had come to be called, became once 
more the topic of conversation. 

A week after the inquest Mrs. Ashcombe had left 
the neighbourhood. Whither she had gone, or how 
long she would be away, nobody knew, nor had anybody 
in or about Shadcombe heard from her or anything 
about her since her departure. The house had been 
shut up and remained so. Indeed, recollection of the 
crime seemed gradually to be fading, when on this par¬ 
ticular afternoon it came once more into prominence. 


ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 


23 


“I heard a curious rumour yesterday,” Vera Trevor 
remarked inconsequently during a lull in the conver¬ 
sation. “It was about poor Mrs. Ashcombe.” 

She was quite a little girl with brown eyes and olive 
skin. The others called her “Zip.” 

“They say she won’t come back here and that her 
cottage is to be sold.” 

“Oh! When did you hear that?” 

“Last night. I expect she feels that to live in that 
house again after what has happened there, would be 
impossible. I can’t say I am surprised.” 

Zip had long black lashes, and a way of looking 
down which displayed them very effectively. She 
looked down now. They were, certainly, extraordina¬ 
rily long lashes. And their curve was quite unusual. 

“Who told you, Vera?” Mrs. Monckton asked. She 
always went straight to the point. She used herself 
to say that she “got to the root of things.” 

“Well, I don’t think I ought to tell you really,” 
Vera replied, after a moment’s hesitation. 

“You ought not to—‘really,’ but all the same you 
will.” 

Again it was Mrs. Monckton: 

“No, you needn’t trouble to, for I am sure I know 
who told you. It was Mrs. Jacob Mulhall.” 

Vera’s look betrayed the truth. 

“As you have guessed,” she said at last, “I suppose 
it can’t matter if I tell you more. But mind, I don’t 
say that what she said is true. She herself said it 
might possibly not be true.” 

“What was it anyhow?” 

“Well, Mrs. Mulhall said, or rather she implied— 
she did not actually say so—that poor Mrs. Ashcombe 
is being watched.” 


24* 


THREE KNOTS 


“Watched!” came the exclamation in chorus. 

Then Mrs. Monckton inquired calmly: 

“Watched by whom, Vera?” 

“Oh, by the police, I suppose. Whom else could 
she be watched by?” 

Mrs. Willie signalled silence. This clearly was a 
matter of quite exceptional importance, and as such 
they had a claim to it. 

“Come and sit over here, Vera,” she said, pulling a 
comfortable chair close to her own. “Now, tell us all 
about it, just exactly what she said. For my part, I 
can’t believe there is a word of truth in this. Still, 
sometimes that woman’s stories . . . .” 

“All right, Mrs. Willie” Vera Trevor answered. 

It was a quaint conceit they had, these friends of 
hers, this trick of calling her “Mrs. Willie.” None 
could have told who had first started it, or how it had 
originated. Still, there it was. In a way it implied 
respect, and Mrs. Willie, though a delightful woman, 
in no way patronising and not in the least “stuck-up,” 
liked it. 

“Now, disgorge every word,” she said, smiling. 
“You must tell us all you were told.” 

Thus adjured, Vera began: 

“I met Mrs. Mulhall in Bank Street yesterday eve¬ 
ning, and directly she saw me she came across the 
street. ‘I have something so exciting to tell you, dear,’ 
she said—you know the way she gushes. Then she 
took me on to The Den, as she said she wanted to get 
me alone, and there went on with the story. ‘I was 
told it at lunch to-day by someone well informed,’ she 
said. ‘He came down from London this morning and 
said he had something to tell me that he knew would 


ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 


25 


interest me very much. He said it concerned poor 
Mrs. Ashcombe.’” 

“Did she say with whom she had lunched?” a voice 
interrupted eagerly. 

“Of course, she didn’t,” Mrs. Monckton cut in. 
“That would have betrayed the name of her informant. 
But I shall soon find out. Go on, Vera.” 

“Well, it seems that this man, whoever he was, had 
met another man in London, and that the other man 
told him he had heard there were rumours that poor 
Mrs. Ashcombe herself could, if she wished to, throw 
some light on what happened on the night of poor 
Ella’s death”—neither Mrs. Ashcombe nor her daugh¬ 
ter was ever spoken of now without the prefix “poor.” 

“Oh, surely that must be wrong.” 

“Just what I said. But Mrs. Jacob Mulhall declared 
her friend had said that the other man had said there 
couldn’t be a doubt there was something in it, and that 
probably we should soon-” 

“Something in what?” 

“Silence!” Mrs. Willie ejaculated sharply. 

“Why, in the story or the rumour, about poor Mrs. 
Ashcombe. Mrs. Mulhall said her friend had said his 
friend implied that poor Mrs. Ashcombe was hiding 
something, something she knew which——” 

“She couldn’t hide anything she didn’t know, Vera,” 
Mrs. Willie murmured softly, and the others laughed. 
“Never mind, go ahead.” 

“Something she knew concerning poor Ella’s death. 
Then Mrs. Mulhall went on to say that her friend said, 
‘Mrs. Ashcombe was being kept under surveillance 

“That means being dogged by detectives?” 

“Yes, I suppose so; Mrs. Mulhall also reminded me 
that really none of us know much, or anything, about 




26 


THREE KNOTS 


the Ashcombes, or even for certain where they came 
from when they came here. It seems, too, that the cook 
she dismissed has made some statements, disclosures of 
some kind, since the inquest.” 

“To the police?” 

“I suppose so. Furthermore, Mrs. Mulhall said we 
know nothing whatever about that friend of hers who 
died, or was said to have died, in Exeter, on the night 
of the crime. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd, Vera,’ 
she went on, breathing right into my face, ‘that Mrs. 
Ashcombe should suddenly have dismissed her cook with 
only a few hours’ warning, have gone herself to Exeter, 
or said she went there, and left Ella and their maid, 
Charlotte, alone in the house like that the whole night? 
And I was told,’ she was becoming quite excited, ‘that 
Mrs. Ashcombe answered in a most curious way at the 
inquest, and that she appeared terribly nervous and 
self-conscious the whole time. Really I begin to 
wonder,’ she added, ‘whether there isn’t something in 
this extraordinary report. If the police are watching 
her, you may be sure there is. I don’t mind telling 
you, dear,’ she finished off, ‘that in my secret heart, 
I was never quite sure about poor Mrs. Ashcombe; 
I mean whether I liked her or whether I didn’t. My 
first impression of her was certainly not favourable. 
I admit I got to like her afterwards in a way. Every¬ 
one about here did. She had a way with her.’ ” 

“What else did she say?” 

“I think that was all. I thought you would like to 
know. But please don’t say I told you. Mrs. Jacob 
Mulhall said I had ‘better not tell anybody—yet, as, of 
course, after all there might be nothing in it.’ ” 

For some moments nobody spoke. All were busy 
thinking. 


ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 


27 


“Thank you, Vera,” Mrs. Willie said at last. “The 
thing certainly seems queer. However, we are bound 
to hear more about it soon—as Mrs. Mulhall knows.” 

Mrs. Monckton was a tall, graceful, well-propor¬ 
tioned woman, with fair hair, a good complexion, which 
was natural to her, and grey-blue eyes full of expres¬ 
sion. All men admired her and not a few would have 
fallen head over heels in love with her had they dared. 
Fortunately for themselves, they did not dare. Mrs. 
Monckton was not a prude. On the other hand she 
would have snubbed promiscuous love-makers in a 
manner they would have remembered to their dying 
day. 

Women for the most part admired her too, but only 
her coterie waxed enthusiastic upon the subject of her 
allurements. The rest tempered their admiration with 
frivolous fault-finding. Mrs. Monckton’s mouth was 
“too stern” to suit their taste, or she “looked too 
proud,” or “bad-tempered,” or “unsympathetic.” Also, 
they “disliked the way she dressed her hair.” 

Perhaps Vera Trevor was Mrs. Willie’s greatest 
chum. The two went everywhere together, and when 
Mrs. Willie had no use for her car, Vera Trevor was 
sure to be seen driving in it. This favouritism, how¬ 
ever, aroused no jealousy in the breasts of the re¬ 
mainder of the coterie. Mrs. Willie was their Queen, 
and if she chose to single out for special honour any 
one of her courtiers, surely none had a right to protest ? 

For a little while longer Mrs. Ashcombe and the 
tales about her were discussed. Some pronounced 
Mrs. Mulhall “a cackling old cat,” whatever kind of 
a hybrid that may be, whilst others took her part. 
After all, if Mrs. Ashcombe were eventually shown to 
be not the “nice” woman they had always considered 


28 


THREE KNOTS 


her, would they not have Mrs. Mulhall to thank for 
her acumen in first making the discovery and putting 
them on their guard? Certainly the new light now- 
focused upon the widow seemed to discover in her, 
blemishes which might eventually prove to be flaws. 

Thus the ball was started. And as it rolled it grew. 
Within a week it had assumed really large dimensions. 
Mrs. Ashcombe—“poor” Mrs. Ashcombe—was sus¬ 
pected of the crime. She had quarrelled with Ella— 
“poor” Ella—three days before, and they had “not 
exchanged a word from that hour. Just think, their 
last words to each other were words spoken in anger.” 
It was “too terrible to think of.” And so they all 
talked and thought about it. 

And about what had they quarreled? Ah! there 
was some mystery there, too. The cook, since her 
dismissal, had been heard to say that mother and 
daughter had spoken about “father.” It was con¬ 
cerning “father” that they had quarrelled. 

But Mrs. Ashcombe was a widow, or supposed to be. 
Could it, then, be her own father they had talked 
about ? 

“No!” the cook had declared emphatically, “because 
with me own ears I heard pore Miss Ella say, me 
father. Aw, yew may depend upon it there be more 
in this *yer than none of us do reckon on.” 

Then, in Exeter, it seemed—Mrs. Mulhall had found 
this out—the police had failed to identify the doctor 
who had telegraphed to Mrs. Ashcombe that her friend 
was dying and wished to see her. 

“Who saw the telegram?” Mrs. Mulhall asked 
triumphantly. “Tell me that, will you? Charlotte 
never saw it, for I asked her this very day.” 

“Why, is Charlotte in the cottage still?” the friend 


ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 


29 


she was addressing exclaimed in surprise. “I thought 
the house was shut up.” 

“Ah, well my dear, there, I admit, I told you a 
white fib. I did not hear the statement actually from 
Charlotte’s lips. But our gardener’s wife was told 
so by Charlotte, and it was our gardener who told me 
yesterday. You are right, Gareth Cottage is shut up. 
Where Charlotte is I can’t tell you. She went off 
with her mistress. Perhaps,” she ended with a mean¬ 
ing nod, “she knew too much to be left behind.” 

“Then who took in the telegram?” 

“Ah, who took in the telegram. That is what we all 
wonder.” 

“I suppose a wire did come?” 

“That I have tried to find out at the post-office, 
but, would you believe it, they won’t tell me. The 
postmaster wouldn’t see me—sent out to say he was 
sorry he was too busy—and the girls in the post-office 
were rude—oh, so rude. One of them told me, to all 
intents, to mind my own business. As though an affair 
of this kind were not everybody’s business! No, if a 
telegram came, which I doubt, it must have been taken 
in by Mrs. Ashcombe herself, or else by Ella. If the 
dismissed cook had opened the door, we should have 
heard long ago about the telegram. She was probably 
gone by then.” 

“But Mrs. Ashcombe had a chauffeur,” Mrs. Mul- 
hall’s friend, scarcely less inquisitive than herself, 
pursued. “Perhaps he took it in.” 

“Perhaps, but exceedingly unlikely, I should say. 
In any case we shall never know, because he, too, went 
away with Mrs. Ashcombe. He drove her and Char¬ 
lotte to the station. That much I have discovered. 
I have not found out, however, to what place they 


30 


THREE KNOTS 


booked. Only Mrs. Ashcombe and the maid went by 
train. The chauffeur—his name is Tom—drove 
straight away from the station, and has not since been 
seen.” 

She had been talking at a great pace. Now she 
paused to gain breath. 

“My dear,” she said at last, “I agree with what the 
cook said. There is more in this affair than meets the 
eye and—why, good heavens .... good gracious 
me .... ” 

She stopped abruptly and almost choked. She was 
staring down the Station Road. Her eyes were fixed. 
Her mouth gaped. 

For coming towards them along the pavement, from 
the station, and not twenty yards away, were Mrs. 
Ashcombe and—a girl, the image of Ella! 


CHAPTER III 


CONCERNS IRENE BAXTER 

On the rocks beneath the shadow of the great red per¬ 
pendicular cliffs between Shadcombe and Dawlish a 
man and a woman sat, engaged in earnest conversation. 

The man was tall, slim, well set-up, soldierly-looking. 
Wearing a loose jacket and knickerbockers, his cap 
beside him on the beach, he looked, as he sat there, 
with the rays of the setting sun touching his brown 
hair, the type of an Antinous. 

And the girl? To describe her would be difficult. 
She was not pretty. On the other hand, none could 
have called her face plain. There was about it some¬ 
thing quite remarkable. It might have been the won¬ 
derful intelligence in the eyes, or the eagerness in the 
expression as she sat listening to her companion, or it 
might have been some sort of strange, indefinable per¬ 
sonality about the girl herself which at once riveted 
the attention of those who knew her. 

Neither was she tall. Her friends—the few she 
possessed—used to say of her that sometimes she 
appeared taller than at other times. That was because 
of the way she carried herself, and the way some people 
affected her. Walking with a dull, stupid creature, 
whose very presence bored her, she would sometimes 
let her thoughts wander; and, as her thoughts wan¬ 
dered, so would her carriage become limp, and she 
31 


32 


THREE KNOTS 


would appear to walk with a careless gait. Walking 
with anyone whose talk or personality interested or 
attracted her, she looked almost a different woman. 
At such times her walk would be elastic, her bearing 
upright, her every glance charged, as it seemed, with 
some peculiar nerve force individual to herself. 

Irene Baxter was indeed an astounding personality. 
At a first sight the casual stranger would have de¬ 
scribed her, probably, as “an attractive girl but not 
good-looking.” He would, perhaps, have set her down, 
had he been asked to “place” her in the social scale, 
as a girl in good circumstances, well-educated, well- 
brought-up, well-cared-for from childhood. 

Certainly there was a refinement about her that is 
sadly lacking in many young women, apparently of her 
class, to be seen about to-day. She had neither a loud 
voice nor a loud laugh. On the contrary, though she 
smiled often she laughed rarely, and the timbre of her 
voice was unusual. 

Yet, far from having been well-cared-for in child¬ 
hood and carefully brought-up, her childhood had been 
unhappy. So unhappy that at the age of thirteen 
she had run away from her brutal father and drunken 
mother, who lived at that time in a tenement in Clap- 
ham, had met with a street accident, been taken to a 
hospital, and finally adopted by one of its directors 
who, having taken a fancy to her and found out all 
about her, had, with little difficulty, succeeded in induc¬ 
ing her parents to renounce all claim to her, and hand 
her over into his keeping. 

“I don’t know what to make of the child, I don’t 
indeed,” this Good Samaritan, a childless widower, had 
one day remarked to a friend. “Her intelligence is 
extraordinary. She’s not much to look at, I admit, 


CONCERNS IRENE BAXTER 


33 


but her intuitive faculty is amazing. She seems to 
read, not only my thoughts, but everybody else’s. The 
only thing she really loves is the study of human 
nature.” 

“Make her a private detective,” his friend had ob¬ 
served laughing. 

“Strange your saying that,” the old man had an¬ 
swered. “That is just what she has always said she 
means to become—a private detective.” 

And what in those early days she had meant to be, 
she had now become. Irene Baxter was not only the 
cleverest and most successful women detective in 
London, but controlling manager of a detective organ¬ 
isation consisting of five women and seven men, founded 
by herself and advertised throughout Great Britain. 

“Then you think it possible?” Gerald Grey asked 
after a pause, during which his companion had watched 
his face narrowly, without knowing it. 

“More than possible,” she replied quietly. “Quite 
probable.” 

“But why should she have done it?” 

“I can’t answer that yet. I shall be able to later.” 

They had known each other only two days, yet each 
felt as though they were acquaintances of long 
standing. 

“To tell you the truth,” he said, smiling, “I had 
never heard of you until a week ago. Does that sur¬ 
prise you ?” 

“It does, considering the sums I spend on adver¬ 
tising. You mean to say that until a week ago you 
had never heard of Baxter’s Detective Agency?” 

“Never.” 

“Where have you been living? In a cave?” 

“Down here. It’s almost that. But even if I had 


34 


THREE KNOTS 


seen your advertisements, I don’t suppose it would 
have occurred to me to write to you. If I had been 
in town I might have called to consult you; but I am 
rarely in town now except when business takes me 
there.” 

“I wonder who that man was who recommended me 
to you.” 

“I have no idea. As I told you, I heard him talking 
in the train with another man, on the way to Plymouth, 
about detectives—they may have been constables in 
plain clothes, and he spoke so highly of your agency 
that I chipped into the conversation, and asked if he 
would give me a few particulars. It was then I dis¬ 
covered that Baxter’s Detective Agency was run by 
a woman—by you. ‘A slip of a girl,’ that’s what he 
called you, ‘a girl with a most colossal brain!’ ” 

Irene Baxter smiled. She had one failing, as Grey 
had discovered. The pride she took in her organisation 
was inordinate. Some women love personal flattery. 
Irene Baxter cared not at all for flattery of that 
description, but open praise of her professional ability 
and of the detective concern she had established and 
raised in a few years to the high standing it then 
boasted, gave her intense delight. 

“Oh, no,” she said, “they cannot have been con¬ 
stables. The police never speak well either of me or 
my assistants. They still profess contempt for female 
detectives as a body. I am glad your train companion 
thought and spoke so well of me. I would love to know 
who he was. Should you recognise him if you met 
him again?” 

“Most certainly I should. But now, tell me, Miss 
Baxter, what is your opinion of this twin-sister of 
Miss Ashcombe, who appeared upon the scene so unex- 


CONCERNS IRENE BAXTER 


35 


pectedly? I confess I was dumbfounded when I saw 
her. Neither Mrs. Ashcombe nor her daughter had 
ever hinted to any one that there was another daughter. 
Why Miss Ashcombe never told me, I can’t imagine, 
seeing that I was engaged to be married to her.” 

His companion paused. Then she said: 

“It is over three months now since the crime was 
committed. Mrs. Ashcombe reappeared in Shadcombe 
on the last day of March, just six weeks after the date. 
During the interval nothing had been heard of her 
about here, and nobody had heard from her. She 
brought back her maid, Charlotte, with her, and, in 
addition, this twin-daughter, whose existence nobody 
about here had previously suspected. You say that 
though this twin-daughter exactly resembles her sister 
in appearance, her character appears to you to be quite 
different.” 

“Quite different.” 

“In what way, for instance?” 

“Oh, in every way; her views and ideas and opinions 
are different. So is her outlook upon life. Her nature 
is different, entirely different.” 

“In short, you dislike her.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Ah, but you must dislike her. You loved her sister, 
Ella. You loved her not because of her physical 
beauty, because if you had you would now love her 
sister. You loved her, then, for the qualities she pos¬ 
sessed. Her twin-sister has none of these attributes, 
you say. On the contrary, her ideas and so forth are 
exactly the reverse. Obviously, therefore, you must 
dislike her.” 

“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I do dislike her. 
More than that, I mistrust her. And now I mistrust 


36 


THREE KNOTS 


her mother, too. Miss Baxter, my private opinion is 
that Mrs. Ashcombe does know something about the 
crime, and that she is in fear that one day she may 
inadvertently say something indiscreet and so com¬ 
promise herself.” 

“Haven’t you been listening to the tittle-tattle of 
the town? There is bound to be some gossip in a place 
like this. And there must have been silly rumours.” 

“If there have been, I know nothing of them. But 
then, naturally, people would talk less, or not at all, 
about the crime if I were present, out of consideration 
for my feelings. Tell me, are the police watching Mrs. 
Ashcombe’s movements? I did hear a report, a little 
while ago, that the London, or the Exeter police, I 
forget which, had her under observation.” 

Irene Baxter gave a little shrug. 

“Don’t let that disconcert you,” she said. “Police 
observation counts for very little. The police observe, 
but they don’t see. You follow my meaning, don’t 
you ?” 

“I think so. But now tell me what is your plan of 
campaign going to be?” 

“I can’t tell you, because I don’t know. I and my 
people never make plans, hard and fast plans, that is— 
only the police do that; yet the uselessness should be 
obvious. In following up a case such as this is, new 
and entirely unlooked-for moves may have to be made 
at any moment, so that rule-of-thumb forecasts are 
really worse than harmful. I can tell you, however, 
what my first move is going to be.” 

“Yes, what?” 

“Mrs. Ashcombe wants a cook. Look, here is the 
advertisement,” and she produced from her bag a little 
scrap of newspaper. 


CONCERNS IRENE BAXTER 


m 


“Well what of that?” 

“I am going to be her cook. I have already applied 
by letter and sent in my credentials.” 

Grey stared at her in astonishment. 

“But what can you cook?” he exclaimed. 

The girl smiled. For the first time he noticed what 
a winning smile she had. It made her quite attrac¬ 
tive. 

“That you shall judge for yourself,” she said 
quietly, looking down at the rock on which they sat, 
and unsticking a shell-fish from it with the point of 
her parasol. “One day Mrs. Ashcombe will invite you 
to dine.” 

“I think not,” he answered quickly. “Mrs. Ashcombe 
and I are now barely on speaking terms.” 

“I tell you, Mr. Grey, that Mrs. Ashcombe will 
invite you to dine or at any rate to lunch. More, she 
will invite you within a fortnight from this date, and 
the meal served will be a meal cooked by me.” 

“If you get the situation,” Grey said with a 
laugh. 

“I shall get it. I never say a thing will happen 
unless I know it is going to happen. That you will 
find out, Mr. Grey, when you have known me a little 
longer.” 

The sun had now set. From far out at sea a shaft 
of red-and-gold shone in across the water, and seemed 
to touch the rocks. In silence they watched it 
disappear. 

“What a gorgeous evening!” the girl murmured at 
last. “I love a night like this, don’t you?” 

Her expression had suddenly changed. The timbre 
of her voice, too, seemed somehow to be different. Grey 
glanced at her without speaking. It occurred to him, 


38 


THREE KNOTS 


at that moment, that he had never before met any¬ 
body quite like Irene Baxter. Did he like her or did 
he not? He could not say for certain. 

Suddenly she turned her head. 

‘‘Who is that man in there?” she asked sharply. 

“Man? Where?” 

“In that little cave,” and she pointed with her 
parasol. 

“I saw nobody.” 

“Oh but I did. Just wait while I go and see.” 

“No, no, let me go.” 

“Stop here, Mr. Grey. I have a reason for asking 
you to.” 

She sprang quickly to her feet, and as she picked 
her way across the shingle, her neat figure and supple 
movements were not lost upon Gerald Grey. 

Hardly had she entered the cave, when he heard a 
man’s voice. The man was in the cave, too. He was 
addressing Irene Baxter, and she was answering him. 
The words were quite distinct and each word had an 
echo. 

“I will ask you, miss, to go out of here at once,” 
the tone was most peremptory. 

“Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort,” Grey heard 
the girl reply. 

“You won’t?” 

“Most certainly, I won’t.” 

“I am afraid I shall have to make you.” 

“Make me!” 

“Yes. Now get out of this at once.” 

“I have a friend with me, and if you touch me I 
shall call him.” 

“I don’t care whom you call. I won’t have you in 
this place. Is it Mr. Grey?” 


CONCERNS IRENE BAXTER 


39 


“Yes, Mr. Grey.” 

“Gerald Grey?” 

“Mr. Gerald Grey.” 

A loud laugh followed. 

“Haw! Haw! Gerald Grey. I know Gerald Grey. 
Let me meet Gerald Grey. I want to meet him. I have 
waited to for weeks and-” 

Gerald had sprung off the rock and was running 
towards the cave. As he entered it he looked about 
him. 

Irene Baxter, sitting on the sand, was quietly read¬ 
ing a letter. She looked up at him calmly, refolded the 
letter and returned it to her bag, which she shut with a 
little snap. 

“Where is he? Where is the fellow?” he exclaimed 
quickly. 

“What fellow?” 

“The man who threatened you, of course.” 

“There is no man in here that I can see except 
yourself.” 

He stared about the cave. It was quite a small place 
and nobody else was in it. 

“Look, is that him over there?” she suddenly asked, 
pointing. 

Grey turned. Instantly a man’s deep voice burst 
into laughter behind him. 

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” 

He sprang round. Irene Baxter was looking up 
at him. 

“You!” he exclaimed. 

She smiled. 

“Didn’t I say last night that I had a voice just 
like a man’s, and that I should prove it to you one 
day ?” 



40 


THREE KNOTS 


“Yes,” he said, recovering from his surprise. “I 
remember now you did, but—but-” 

“You had no idea . . . .” 

“Certainly I had no idea.” 

“Well, now you know, Mr. Grey, so don’t let any¬ 
thing else surprise you. I shall often surprise you I 
expect—that you will see as we go on.” 

“And now,” she ended, rising, “it is time we both 
went home. By this time to-morrow I shall be cook to 
Mrs. Ashcombe, and then-” 

“Yes?” 

“Oh, you will see as we go on.” 




CHAPTER IV 


FOOD FOR GOSSIP 

“Our new cook is a success, Polly,” Mrs. Ashcombe 
remarked, as she sat at dinner with her daughter in 
the pretty little dining-room in Gareth Cottage. “How 
different from our late treasure!” 

For a moment Polly did not answer. She was 
cracking an abnormally tough Brazil nut with her 
teeth, or trying to, and the nut refused to yield. 
Finally a compromise was arrived at, and eventually 
she spoke. 

“Yes, but doesn’t she strike you as being an odd 
woman, mother?” 

“Odd? How?” 

“Well, for one thing, she always wears gloves. I 
have never seen her bare hands yet.” 

“I doubt if they would interest you if you did. One 
cook’s hands are probably like any other cook’s.” 

“Possibly, but why does she wear gloves?” 

“I am sure I don’t know. You had better ask her. 
Why does a dog wag its tail? Why does a cow swallow 
its cud? Why does a miller wear a white cap?” 

“I wish you would be serious, mother. I think it 
most strange that our cook should wear gloves.” 

“Perhaps she has ugly fingers. Anyhow I am sure I 
don’t mind what she wears or what she doesn’t wear, 
provided she goes on giving us dinners cooked and 
served as excellently as the one we have just had. 

41 


42 THREE KNOTS 

By the way, what do you think she said to me to-day, 
Polly ?” 

“Please pass the nuts, mother. You are eating all 
the filberts and leaving me those nasty hard Brazils. 
How should I know what she said to you? Asked for 
higher wages, I suppose.” 

“Nothing of the sort. She asked me if I ever had 
friends to dine, that she hoped I sometimes did, because 
she would like to show them the kind of cook I had.” 

“Very conceited, I call it, and rather impertinent. 
What business of hers is it whom you have or whom 
you do not have to dine? I wish she had said that 
to me.” 

“I suppose you would have snubbed her, a most 
foolish thing to do. Anyway, I didn’t snub her. I 
told her we had not had any one to dine since poor 
Ella’s death, but that I should give some little dinner¬ 
parties again soon. She quite brightened up, and said 
she hoped it would be very soon. In fact she became 
quite loquacious after that, and said she liked best 
cooking for gentlemen, ‘not them old gentlemen as 
always grumbles, but gentlemen of sensible age who is 
epicures.’ She really is something of a character, 
Polly.” 

“You are right there, mother. I only hope she is 
a woman of good character. You will spoil her, just 
as you did that awful Martha, so that you had to 
dismiss her at an hour’s notice.” 

“Now, whom can we invite?” Mrs. Ashcombe said 
thoughtfully, ignoring her daughter’s comment. “Cook 
suggested one or two people.” 

“Cook suggested. . . . ! My word, mother, but 
that is what the French call tout d fait trop fort . 
This woman has been here about ten days, and she 


FOOD FOR GOSSIP 


43 


starts dictating to you, telling you you ought to give 
dinner-parties and then begins selecting your guests. 
You ought not to let her talk like that. You ought 
not to, indeed.” 

“I suppose not, but there is something peculiar about 
that woman.” 

“There certainly is that.” 

“I mean about her manner, and her way of putting 
things.” 

“And may I ask who the guests are she considers 
you ought to invite?” 

“Bobbie Tolhurst is one. Gerald Grey the other.” 

“How on earth does she know we know Bobbie 
Tolhurst ?” 

“Probably Charlotte told her. Besides, she knows 
Shadcombe well, she says. She has stayed here several 
times. She was here for a week’s holiday when she 
saw my advertisement. Remember, in a little town like 
Shadcombe, everybody talks. And everybody knows 
everybody else’s business.” 

Polly paused again. She was making onslaughts 
with her teeth upon another thick-shelled nut. It was 
a practice in which she indulged in the solitude of her 
home. 

“I don’t mind your asking Bobbie Tolhurst” she 
said at last. “He is generally amusing; but Gerald 
Grey does not attract me. I can’t see what poor Ella 
saw in him, yet in her letters to me she used to rave 
about him. I admit he is good-looking in a way.” 

“His manner has been very cold lately,” her mother 
said, thoughtfully. “But there, so has the manner of 
a lot of people I have met since I came back. I can’t 
understand why it is. Now, I think it would be quite 
a good idea to ask Gerald to dinner, and Bobbie Tol- 


44 


THREE KNOTS 


hurst to keep him company. We may be able to find 
out then what has come over the Shadcombe people. 
I shall ask Gerald point-blank why his manner has 
changed so, when I get him to myself. He will be 
forced to say something.” 

And so it came about that both young men were 
invited. 

Bobbie Tolhurst was a cheery lad. He had blue 
eyes and a merry laugh, and a word to say to everyone. 
Though born and reared at Shadcombe, where his 
father and his father’s father had both dwelt before 
him, almost from boyhood he had been a rolling stone. 
He had roamed the world over. He had been every¬ 
thing in turn and nothing long. A finished horseman 
and a first-rate shot, he was also an all-round sports¬ 
man. He had studied law. He had studied engineering. 
He had written books on all sorts of subjects. One of 
them concerned his doings whilst wandering round the 
world with a debauched young millionaire. His career 
had been more checquered than exchecquered, yet he 
had never seemed to worry. A white man through 
and through, his gaiety and spirits were infectious. 

“I sometimes wonder,” Polly said, after cracking 
her last nut, “how Bobbie Tolhurst makes a living. 
He’s too honest to live by his wits, and writing is a 
poor profession.” 

“I should say he had plenty of brains,” her mother 
suggested blandly. 

“Oh, he’s clever enough; but don’t we know plenty 
of clever people who never earn a penny?” 

They both laughed, as though at some thought. 

“Indeed, we do. However, Polly, Bobbie Tolhurst’s 
private life is no concern of ours. If you are so keen 
to know, why don’t you draw him out?” 


FOOD FOR GOSSIP 


45 


“I have tried to, but he won’t be drawn. He seems 
fond of women’s company, very fond of it. I wonder 
where he lives now? He rarely comes to Shadcombe.” 

They had spent a long day in Plymouth shopping, 
and were tired. After a little while Mrs. Ashcombe 
lay back in her arm-chair in the drawing-room, with 
her eyes closed. 

She was still a handsome woman. Her face had 
hardly any lines, and there were no crowsfeet. Now, 
as she lay in her chair, her face at rest, she bore a 
marked resemblance to the famous Madame Nirvelle. 
There was the same broad expanse of forehead, the 
same semi-aquiline nose, and the firm straight mouth 
was singularly like hers. The chin was too pointed, a 
defect of which Mrs. Ashcombe herself was only too 
well aware. In her younger days this sharp feature 
had so distressed her that she had consulted two emi¬ 
nent surgeons, in the hope that they might be able to 
do something to rectify nature’s error. Then she had 
tried massage and worn curious compress pads and 
bandages at night, but all to no purpose. The “tire¬ 
some feature,” as she termed it, remained tiresome. 

“It looks like an inverted Alp, mother” Ella had 
said once when she was quite a little thing. Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe had laughed and replied that she thought it was. 

She had always had beautiful hair, and it was beau¬ 
tiful still. When she let it down at night, “gave it a 
holiday,” as Ella used to say, it reached almost to her 
knees and was so thick that it covered her back like a 
great broad mantle. Perhaps nobody had admired it 
more than her own daughter. At school she had often 
told the other girls about it, boasting about it some¬ 
times to such an extent that, on one occasion, the 
mistress had taken her aside and reprimanded her 


46 THREE KNOTS 

severely, telling her it was “not modest,” to talk like 
that in public. 

“Supposing some man were to hear you talking like 
that about your mother’s hair,” she had ended by 
saying. “What do you suppose he would think?” 

“Probably he would think he would like to see it,” 
little Ella, then aged ten, had naively retorted. 

For which “impertinent rejoinder” she had been 
put to stand in a corner. 

The schoolmistress’s own hair resembled a twisted 
wisp. 


“Mother!” 

Mrs. Ashcombe had been sleeping peacefully. She 
sat up with a start. 

“Good heavens child, how you frightened me! What 
is the matter? What is it?” 

“Just read this.” 

Polly was very excited. She held in her hand a 
copy of The Express and Echo , the Exeter evening 
paper. It had lain upon the table, unopened, until a 
few minutes before. 

“Read it to me, whatever it is. I haven’t got my 
glasses. You ought not to frighten me like that, 
Polly.” 

The girl patted out the paper, held it near the 
reading-lamp, and read the following paragraph aloud: 

“The Holcombe Tragedy:— 

“The News Association states: We have it on 
reliable authority that an early arrest may be 
expected in connection with what has come to be 
known as The Holcombe Mystery. 


FOOD FOR GOSSIP 


47 

“It will be remembered that on the 16th February 
last, Miss Ella Asheombe, who was living alone 
with her mother at Gareth Cottage, which over¬ 
looks the sea near the village of Holcombe, South 
Devon, was found early in the morning strangled 
in her bed with a piece of twine which was still 
tied tightly round her neck. From that day until 
now, no trace whatever of the murderer or mur¬ 
deress has been discovered, nor has any clue to 
the mystery been found. 

“Last Tuesday some holiday makers staying at 
Dawlish, whilst wandering in the meadows adjoin¬ 
ing Hole Head, noticed a small bundle lying half- 
hidden in the long grass at the foot of an oak-tree. 
It proved to contain a packet of letters, a locket 
with Miss Ashcombe’s portrait, and a bit of tallow 
candle. 

“Thinking that these objects might have some 
bearing upon the crime—the visitors admit they 
had trespassed for the express purpose of obtain¬ 
ing a view of Gareth Cottage—the finder took 
them at once to the Dawlish Police Station. We 
are now informed that the letters found contain 
statements likely to incriminate a well-known local 
resident, and that an arrest is hourly expected. 
“It is significant that the string tied round the 
bundle exactly resembled the tarred twine which 
was found tied round the victim’s neck when the 
body was discovered.” 

As she laid down the paper, Polly turned to her 
mother. To her horror she was lying back unconscious, 
pale as death. She sprang across to her. 

“Mother! Mother!” she cried, seizing her hands 


*48 


THREE KNOTS 


and rubbing them with her own. “What is the matter? 
Why have you fainted ?” 

But Mrs. Ashcombe made no sign. 

Polly rang the bell violently. Then she ran out of 
the room, and came back with some water. Some 
minutes later her mother opened her eyes. 

“It is nothing, I am better,” she murmured faintly. 
“It was only that sudden news, it brought back the 
past so vividly. You must forgive me, Polly. Thank 
you Charlotte,” as the maid held some water to her 
lips. “I shall be better in a moment. It is nothing, 
nothing.” 

Yet it was obvious to her daughter that the shock 
had been very great. For a moment she wondered why. 
It seemed strange to her, even then, that the news 
should have upset her mother so terribly. After all, 
what was there in it? Considering all that Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe had gone through, and the wonderful way she 
had borne it, it was curious that news, which in reality 
was good news, should have made her faint like that. 

Half-an-hour later she was practically herself again, 
and was able to talk calmly about what they had just 
read. 

“I wonder,” Polly suddenly said thoughtfully, “the 
police did not communicate with you when this bundle 
was brought to them. It would, surely, have been the 
natural thing to do. Is the locket that has been found 
one of yours, mother? And had you missed it? I 
thought nothing had been stolen.” 

“Yes, one of mine. And I did miss it at once, but 
I quite forgot to say so until it was too late. I was so 
dreadfully upset during those terrible days that I 
hardly knew what I was doing or saying. I was light¬ 
headed for forty-eight hours or more, you know.” 


FOOD FOR GOSSIP 49 

“And the letters. What letters do you suppose 
they are?” 

“I have no idea.” 

Suddenly a hunted look came into the woman’s eyes. 

“Who is it they say is likely to be arrested?” she 
asked in a strained voice. 

“Of that there are no details,” Polly answered. 
She picked up the paper and glanced again at the 
paragraph. 

“‘A well-known local resident?’ is all it says,” she 
said. “Who in the world can it be?” 

“I cannot imagine.” 

For some moments both were silent. 

“I think you had better go to bed now, dear,” Mrs. 
Ashcombe said at last. “You have had a long, tiring 
day. And then this news on the top of it all. I have 
not felt so upset for a very long time.” 

Her tone was almost querulous. 

But Polly did not at once go up to bed. She sat 
alone in the drawing-room, thinking, thinking. Her 
mother’s agitation was what puzzled her. Look at it 
which way she would, she could not account for it at 
all. What was there in the paragraph that had 
startled her so much? 

Gareth Cottage was in reality two cottages. That 
is to say, it had been added to by tenant after tenant, 
the last of whom had added also a second floor, so 
that the term “cottage” really hardly applied to it. 
And yet, in spite of these “growths,” as the local 
builder called them, it was picturesque enough. 

It was past midnight when Polly lit her bedroom 
candle. As she went slowly up the stairs, she thought 
she heard a footstep. She stopped, listening. Yes, 
some one was about. It sounded on the back stairs. 


50 


THREE KNOTS 


She passed along the narrow little passage, and opened 
the door at the end of it. 

She was face to face with cook. 

Cook, in a becoming 'peignoir , and as stout as ever; 
her obesity had surprised Polly and her mother, seeing 
how alert the woman was, and how agile bodily. Per¬ 
haps it was her agility that surprised them, seeing how 
fat she was. And—why, yes, even when dressed, or 
undressed, like that, and at that hour of the night, 
she still wore gloves. 

“Why, cook,” Polly exclaimed sharply, “what are 
you roaming about the house for at this time of night?” 

“I am sorry if I disturbed you, miss, I’m sure,” the 
woman replied calmly, without an instant’s hesitation. 
“I believe I forgot to bolt and lock the back door. 
I woke up a minute ago and remembered, so I am going 
downstairs to do it.” 

“You must really be less forgetful,” Polly answered 
in the same tone. “I am surprised you should forget 
to lock the door in this house, after what happened 
here.” 

“It shall not occur again, I assure you.” 

“I hope it won’t. Go down and fasten the door and 
go back to bed at once. Good-night.” 

“Good-night, miss.” 

But Polly could not sleep. She felt restless and 
somehow “nervy.” And her pillow kept getting hot. 
She heard the clock strike one. Later it struck two, 
and still she had not slept. 

Finally she struck a match, lit the candle at her 
bedside, and got out of bed. She must do something 
or other. See and speak to somebody. Was her 
mother awake too, she wondered? 

She would go and see. 


FOOD FOR GOSSIP 


51 


In her slippered feet she crept along the passage. 
Noiselessly she turned the handle of her mother’s bed¬ 
room door, and pushed the door open. Shading the 
candle with her hand, she approached the bed. She 
started. 

Her mother’s bed was empty. 

She stared all round the room. Nobody was there. 
The bed had been slept in, and she put her hand 
inside it. 

It was quite cold. 

Alarmed, not knowing quite what to do, she laid 
down her candle, and went out into the passage. In 
the darkness a thread of light could be seen along the 
floor. On tip-toe she approached it. Then she caught 
her breath. 

The thread of light marked the door of a room with 
a light in it. And the room was the one in which her 
sister had been strangled. Since she and her mother 
had returned to the cottage, that room had been locked 
up. Nor had anybody entered it since. 

Intently she listened. Her heart beat faster and 
faster. 

Hark! What was that ? 

Someone was inside the room! She could hear soft 
footsteps, also someone breathing. There was another 
sound too. It sounded like gentle sawing with a very 
small saw. 

Summoning all her courage, she turned the handle 
of the door and walked in. 


CHAPTER V 


WHO KILLED ELLA ASHCOMBE? 

A Hindoo axiom says, “A man may be approached 
through his stomach.” It sounds a disagreeable way 
of approaching him, but perhaps it is a short cut. 

Walking along the sea wall on a beautiful evening 
towards the end of May, on their way to dine with 
Mrs. Ashcombe, Gerald Grey and Bobbie Tolhurst 
broached many topics in conversation. Though oppo¬ 
site in character, the young men had several tastes in 
common. Both loved travel, but whereas Tolhurst 
had travelled largely, Grey had only once been outside 
the British Isles, and then only on the Continent. 
Their sympathies, too, were similar, also their ideals. 
And both were fond of sports, though not of the same 
sports. 

They were mid-way between Splash Point and the 
steep flight of steps at the end of the sea wall, which 
leads down to Smuggler’s Lane, when, for the first 
time since Ella’s death, Grey broached the subject of 
the tragedy. 

“I dare say you think,” he said suddenly, abruptly, 
“that I am gradually recovering from the shock of last 
February. Tolhurst, I shall never forget it— never.” 

“You had much better try to,” his companion 
answered quietly. “Nobody could have felt for you 
more than I did; but is there any use in brooding?” 

52 


WHO KILLED ELLA ASHCOMBE? 


53 


“Any use? Certainly there is. I want never to 
forget it until—well—until the murderer, whoever he 
may be, has been brought to justice.” 

“It seems a hopeless task, now, to try to find him, 
doesn’t it? More than three months after it happened.” 

“I don’t care if three months, or three years, or 
thirty years, go by,” Grey exclaimed. “I shall go on 
trying to find him as long as I am alive.” 

“And now listen, Tolhurst,” he went on more calmly. 
“You know I respect your judgment, and I want to 
ask you something. I want you to give me your frank 
opinion of Mrs. Ashcombe. Since she returned here 
our relations have been rather strained. I can’t say 
exactly why. In fact, I should not have accepted her 
invitation to-night if I had not had a special reason 
for doing so. And I want you to tell me, too, what 
you think of this sudden appearance of a daughter 
whose existence nobody had suspected. It seems to 
me, and to most people living here, extraordinary that 
she should, while Ella was alive, never have hinted that 
she had another child. I feel sure that Ella must have 
been told to say nothing, too. Otherwise she surely 
would have told me.” 

For a minute or more Tolhurst continued to walk 
along in silence. When he had thrown away his ciga¬ 
rette and lit a fresh one, he replied by asking a question 
in return. 

“Why in particular do you want my opinion?” 

“Because, as I told you, I trust your judgment.” 

“Yes; but for what reason do you want it?” 

“Because, if your opinion is what I believe it to be, 
I mean to take certain steps.” 

“Well, then, I will be frank with you. I don’t mis¬ 
trust Mrs. Ashcombe for a moment. On the contrary, 


54 


THREE KNOTS 


I believe her to be in every way above suspicion. Is 
that what you wanted to know? I believe she has, or 
rather had, some excellent reason for, so to speak, 
concealing the existence of this twin-daughter. If her 
husband is alive, as I imagine he is, I expect she has 
some equally good reason for masquerading as a 
widow.” 

“But,” Tolhurst continued, “I mistrust Polly. I 
don’t trust her in any way at all. From what I have 
seen of her, I believe her to be a mischief-making, de¬ 
signing little jade. If you like her, I can’t help it. 
You asked for my opinion and you have got it.” 

“Thank you, Tolhurst, you have answered my ques¬ 
tions just as I wanted you to. I agree with you about 
Polly. I don’t, however, at all aigree with you about 
Mrs. Ashcombe. The future will prove which of us is 
right.” 

They were now walking up the short, crooked hill 
known as Smuggler’s Lane, which leads from the high 
road between Shadcombe and Dawlish Down to the 
beach and to the Sea Wall. Both were in evening 
clothes and wore light rainproof coats. At the top 
of the lane they met Mrs. Monckton and Vera Trevor. 

“Ah, I can guess where you are going,” Mrs. Monck¬ 
ton exclaimed, with one of her charming smiles. “May 
I have one guess?” 

“Well, yes, just one,” Tolhurst answered lightly. 

“You are dining with Mrs. Ashcombe.” 

“We plead guilty to the charge.” 

“I am so glad. People about here are cold-shoulder¬ 
ing her in the most abominable manner. I am glad 
you are not like that.” 

“Why should we be like that?” 

“Why should anybody be? But they are. People 


WHO KILLED ELLA ASHCOMBE? 


55 


who shall be nameless have spread detestable rumours, 
and many have been believed. I met her yesterday, 
and she told me she had captured a new and wonderful 
cook.” 

“Then we, probably, are to be the first victims for 
the cook to try her hand upon,” said Tolhurst. 

“On the contrary, I expect you are the first asked 
to partake of a very excellent meal. I am glad, though, 
that Mrs. Ashcombe is beginning to entertain again. 
I am sure she needs distraction. Well, good-night, 
both of you, and may you both enjoy your dinner. 
Come and see Willie soon. You know he loves seeing 
you.” 

“Just as we love to see you, Mrs. Monckton—you 
and Miss Trevor. Yes, tell him we will come soon. 
Good-night.” 

“Good-night, Bobbie. Good-night, Mr. Grey.” 

It was noticeable that whereas everybody called Tol¬ 
hurst “Bobbie,” most people called Grey “Mr. Grey.” 

“And now I really must take you down to see our 
cook,” Mrs. Ashcombe said after dinner. “She is quite 
a character—and hugely fat.” 

“Fat ?” Grey said in surprise. 

“Well, and why not? Aren’t cooks often fat?” 

She laughed. 

“We have just had a new range put in. I told cook 
I would take you in to see it. Oh, and her name! What 
do you think it is? You will never guess. ‘Minerva 
Brown.’ ” 

“Great Caesar! what a name!” 

It was Tolhurst who spoke. 

“I asked her if it was not rather an unusual Chris¬ 
tian name, and she answered that her father had 


56 


THREE KNOTS 


‘christened us all after the gods.’ She said he was 
always reading, and that he was ‘a scholard,’ and that 
her two brothers are named ‘Castor’ and ‘Pollux.’ ” 

“No wonder she is a character” Grey remarked. He 
was thinking of what Irene Baxter had said that 
evening on the rocks: “I shall often surprise you, I 
expect—that you will see as we go on.” 

She surprised him again when they went into the 
kitchen. An obese female was seated with her back 
turned, reading a pamphlet. She rose and turned as 
the four entered and he saw before him a woman of 
middle age, exceedingly portly, wearing spectacles and 
with towsled hair almost hiding her forehead. He 
noticed that she wore gloves. 

“Why do you always wear gloves, cook?” Polly 
inquired in a hostile tone, before Mrs. Ashcombe could 
say a word. 

“I always ’ave and always shall, miss,” Irene Baxter 
answered firmly. “May I ask if my cooking don’t 
give satisfaction?” 

“Oh, your cooking gives satisfaction. We have no 
fault to find with that.” 

“Well then, miss, if you wishes me to cook with me 
sweaty hands bare-” 

“Please don’t be so horrible, cook,” Mrs. Ashcombe 
interrupted. “I have no objection to your wearing 
gloves if you prefer to, nor has Miss Polly. Now, we 
will come and see the new range. Is it working 
properly?” 

But “cook” did not answer. She was holding the 
pamphlet close to her eyes again, and as she read, she 
murmured to herself: 

“Married women born during this month should 
avoid crowds and places of amusement. They should 



WHO KILLED ELLA ASHCOMBE? 57 

be particularly careful not to enter into corre¬ 
spondence with strangers or to-” 

“What on earth are you reading there, cook?’* Mrs. 
Ashcombe again interrupted. 

Cook looked up. 

“It’s ‘Every Woman’s Fortune,’ mum, I read it regu¬ 
lar. Something wonderful the things it’s told me—it 
and that Madame Satanella?” 

“Madame Satanella?” her mistress said in a tone of 
interest. “Who is Madame Satanella?” 

“She is one of these clearvoyoms. Wonderful the 
things she knows.” 

“Indeed! Where does she live?” 

It was obvious even to her guests that the subject 
was one in which Mrs. Ashcombe was interested. 

“In London, mum. In Edgware Road. I go to see 
her regular. What she don’t know about folks ain’t 
worth knowing.” 

“You must tell me more about her another time. And 
now let us see the range.” 

Grey and Tolhurst displayed polite interest in what 
they were shown in the kitchen. Secretly they were 
more interested in cook, Grey for an obvious reason, 
Tolhurst because the woman appealed to his sense of 
humour almost as keenly as her name had done. Any¬ 
thing less like a Minerva he had never seen. 

Grey was the last to pass out of the door when what 
Tolhurst called the “ocular survey” was over. As he 
pressed his way past the obese woman with the fear¬ 
some fringe he felt something—an envelope—pushed 
into his hand. Their eyes met for an instant. Then 
he was gone. 

“Strange that woman being addicted to fortune¬ 
tellers,” Mrs. Ashcombe said thoughtfully, when they 



58 


THREE KNOTS 


were again in the drawing-room. “I have a weakness 
for psychists myself, though I suppose what they tell 
one is mostly stuff and nonsense. Still some of them 
have told me some wonderfully true things.” 

“About your future life?” Tolhurst asked. 

“Yes; but chiefly about the past, things they couldn’t 
possibly have known.” 

“Such as?” Tolhurst pursued. 

“Oh, I can’t remember now,” and she changed the 
subject. 

Polly had been strangely silent all the evening. Her 
usual vivacity seemed to have entirely deserted her. 
Once or twice Tolhurst, who was nothing if not observ¬ 
ant, had noticed her watching her mother with a singu¬ 
larly distrait expression. This puzzled him a little. 
Could they, he wondered, have quarrelled? 

They had not quarrelled, but since that night a week 
before, when Polly had surprised her mother at two 
o’clock in the morning busily engaged in rubbing with 
emery paper part of the parquet flooring near the win¬ 
dow in the room where the tragedy had occurred, her 
mind had been busy, and a curious feeling of mistrust 
regarding her mother had gradually forced its way into 
her brain, try as she would to dispel it. 

True, Mrs. Ashcombe had not appeared in the least 
perturbed at her sudden and presumably unexpected 
entry. It she was startled she had certainly concealed 
her astonishment in a remarkable manner, and displayed 
the greatest sang froid. From her “all fours” position 
on the floor, she had promptly knelt upright, and she 
had even forced a laugh as she said quite calmly: 

“Why, Polly, I thought you were in bed and asleep 
long ago! Why have you come in here?” 

Polly, it was, who had betrayed her feelings. It had 


WHO KILLED ELLA ASHCOMBE? 59 

needed all her courage to fling open the door and bounce 
into the room—that awful room as she now always 
looked upon it—and her heart had been beating so vio¬ 
lently that for some moments she had been unable to 
speak. At last, controlling herself, she had stammered 
out: 

“I—I saw a light in this room, under the door and I 
—wondered who could be in here. You have frightened 
me terribly, mother. Do say what you are doing ?” 

“Why, can’t you see? Rubbing down part of the 
flooring that Charlotte says won’t polish. I admit it is 
a curious time to do it, but I couldn’t get to sleep— 
such a close night, isn’t it? And, of course Charlotte 
made up a huge fire in my room which I had to rake out. 
Even then I couldn’t sleep. So suddenly the thought 
came to me to come in here and do these boards. I 
have meant for a long time to do them with emery 
paper.” 

“But why? The room is shut up always. Anyhow, 
Charlotte would have rubbed the floor, if it needs 
rubbing.” 

“It was just to tire myself. I couldn’t think of any 
better thing.” 

She stood up. 

“I feel quite weary now, so I daresay I shall get to 
sleep. Couldn’t you sleep either?” 

“No, I haven’t slept a wink.” 

“There you are, you see. It’s the nasty hot night. 
Come, let us get to bed again and have another try.” 

Polly had been thinking again during the evening of 
all this and other details of that night, including her 
meeting with cook at the head of the back stairs at the 
end of the passage, and she had thought of it often and 
often since it had occurred. She was uneasy in her 


60 


THREE KNOTS 


mind, had been ever since the incident of her mother’s 
strange fainting fit and what had led to it. 

“I hope you haven’t found me awfully dull to-night,” 
she said suddenly, apologetically, addressing the two 
guests simultaneously, as they prepared to leave. “I 
haven’t felt well all day, I think it is this relaxing cli¬ 
mate. It never does agree with me.” 

Grey expressed his regret. 

“You ought to go to Dartmoor, or to Exmoor, for a 
little while,” Tolhurst said. “You will find that bracing. 
The air is like a tonic.” 

“I was out on Dartmoor years ago,” Polly an¬ 
swered. “We found it most depressing. Everywhere 
those awful-looking convicts.” 

Tolhurst laughed. 

“Well, if you had stayed at Wormwood Scrubbs you 
might think Shepherd’s Bush depressing,” he said. 

“I do think Shepherd’s Bush depressing, apart from 
Wormwood Scrubbs. I have stayed there.” 

“Well, take Borstal, or any other place where crim¬ 
inals do congregate. Have you ever been near Borstal?” 

“You seem set on sending Polly to some penitentiary 
or other,” Grey observed grimty. “Bobbie’s mind seems 
set on jails, Mrs. Ashcombe. He ought to be a warder 
or a-” 

He stopped abruptly. An instant before Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe had been standing there. Now she was nowhere 
to be seen. 

It w r as not until long afterwards that this incident 
recurred to him. 



CHAPTER VI 


SURPRISING DEVELOPMENTS 

Grey did not open the note that Irene Baxter had 
slipped into his hand until alone in his little house off 
Landscore Road that night, after walking back with 
Tolhurst to Shadcombe, by way of Dawlish Road, Cross 
Park, New Road and Exeter Road, which was shorter 
than by the sea wall. 

It contained only a brief message: 

“A friend of mine will call to see you at eight to-mor¬ 
row evening.—I. B.” 

He had not seen Irene since the evening when they 
had parted outside the cave on the beach, between, Shad- 
comb and Dawlish. 

The note disappointed him. He was getting im¬ 
patient. He wanted to know if the detective had done 
any good by being cook to the Ashcombes. Above all, 
he was anxious to know if she now suspected Mrs. Ash- 
combe of being in any way cognisant of anything that 
had happened on the night of the crime. 

Punctually at eight o’clock the following evening, a 
ring came at his front-door bell. Some moments later, 
the door of what he called his “snuggery” opened and 
his man announced: “A gentleman to see you, sir.” 

Grey had expected Miss Baxter’s friend to be a 
woman, but he at once rose and shook hands with the 
visitor. 


61 


62 


THREE KNOTS 


He was rather a pale young man, not tall, with straw- 
coloured hair, carefully parted, combed straight back 
and plastered down. His weak-looking eyes were mag¬ 
nified by large round glasses with tortoiseshell rims, and 
he wore a rather loose-fitting grey lounge suit. He was 
very slim and held himself loosely. There was non¬ 
chalance about his manner as he grasped Grey’s hand. 

Grey was not prepossessed. 

“Our friend, Miss Baxter, has asked me to call to 
see you,” he said in a tone that was almost patronising. 
“This is a nice little place you have,” he added, looking 
about the room after seating himself in the chair that 
Grey had pushed forward. 

Grey stared at him. 

“I am glad you think so,” he replied coldly. 

“Oh, but I do! Quite a nice little shop. Been here 
long, what?” 

“Really, Mr-?” Grey waited for him to say his 

name, but the other continued volubly: 

“I had a little shop of my own like this once,” and 
he leered out of his weak eyes through his round glasses 
at Grey. 

“How interesting!” his host answered icily, with an 
unconcealed sneer. “But I should be more interested to 
know what you have come here about.” 

“About? Oh, about nothing in particular. Irene 
suggested I should pop in, that is all. Said we were 
birds of a feather and she thought we ought to meet.” 

“Miss Baxter said that?” 

“Sure. I and she are great pals,” he leered again. 
“Clever girl, Irene, what? You’ve found that out, no 
doubt.” 

Grey began to wonder if his visitor were quite sane. 
If he were sane, then he was one of the most odious 



SURPRISING DEVELOPMENTS 


63 


people he had ever met. Two questions came uppermost 
in his mind. Why on earth had Miss Baxter sent this 
person to him, and how was he to get rid of him? He 
felt that if the stranger stayed long and continued to 
talk in this strain, he would end by pitching him out of 
the house or telling his man to do so. Then an idea 
struck him. 

He pulled out his watch. 

“I am dining out to-night,” he said, “so I fear I must 
be leaving you. Which way are you going? Have you 
a cab, or would you like to ring one up ?” 

To his dismay the young man leant back in his chair 
and laughed. 

“Going? Why, I’ve only just come!” 

He slipped his thumbs into the arm-holes of his 
waistcoat. 

“Don’t go yet, old man,” he said affably. “I’m just 
beginning to like you, so your dinner friends can wait. 
As I was saying, or going to say, Irene is a topper, a 
real topper. But mind, you’ve got to know her. She’s 
not one of your girls who-” 

“Really, Mr.-, whoever you are, your relations 

with Miss Baxter don’t interest me in the least. I have 
to dine out, as I told you, so I must say good-evening. 
My man will show you out.” 

His finger was on the bell-push, when the visitor 
clutched his arm. At the same instant with his other 
hand he snatched off his horn-rimmed glasses and his 
wig, and his face seemed to undergo an extraordinary 
transformation. 

Irene Baxter in a grey suit stood before him, smiling. 

“Good gracious, Miss Baxter!” 

He was aghast, and made no attempt to conceal his 
amazement. 




64 


THREE KNOTS 


“A new disguise,” she said quietly. “I had to try it 
on somebody I knew, so I thought I would experiment 
with you. Yes, I think it will be satisfactory enough.” 

“Satisfactory! But your voice, your face, your 
entire personality, how do you change yourself like 
that?” 

“Therein lies my success, in some measure. I said I 
should surprise you as I went on. You will get many 
more surprises if we know each other long. Now, I 
must put my wig on again, in case your man comes in. 
And for the same reason I must go on talking in the 
tone that I was talking in.” 

She had readjusted her wig and put on her horn¬ 
rimmed glasses again before he could stop her. He 
begged her to talk in her natural voice, but she replied 
that she could not run the risk. 

“Think how your man would talk,” she said, “if he 
found you had been visited by a woman in man’s 
clothing. And I must consider my reputation. 

“And now to come to business,” she went on, as she 
sat down in the chair from which she had just risen. 

“I said eight o’clock, because this is my evening out 
and I have to be back by ten, and before going back I 
have to change. Those rooms I have are most con¬ 
venient for slipping in and out of. Nobody can see me 
when I enter or leave by the door that opens into Teign 
Street.” 

“That is fortunate, anyhow,” Grey answered. He 
pushed his cigarettes towards her. “And now how have 
you got on? Have you discovered anything? Do you 
suspect anyone?” 

“Yes—and no. I have found out several things. One 
is that Polly Ashcombe suspects her mother of knowing 
something of the crime. Another is that her mother 


SURPRISING DEVELOPMENTS 


65 


does know something of the crime, I believe a good deal. 
I don’t yet say I am sure she did not herself commit it, 
but-” 

“You don’t mean to say there is a possibility of 
that!” Grey exclaimed. “Surely not.” 

“Nothing is impossible. I could tell you of cases I 
have dealt with in which the culprit—but that is beside 
the mark. I came face to face with Polly once, in the 
middle of the night, just as I was about to make certain 
investigations. I made them another night, and they 
proved satisfactory. Polly herself surprised her 
mother, between two and three in the morning, engaged 
in some curious occupation in the room where the crime 
was committed. I have failed, as yet, to ascertain what 
Mrs. Ashcombe was doing, but I shall know before I 
give warning, I hope.” 

“Then you are leaving?” 

“Oh, of course. I never meant to stay there more 
than a week or two. I shall say the air of Devonshire 
disagrees with me, then I shall be able to get a reference 
from Mrs. Ashcombe, if on some future occasion I 
should need an extra one. She likes me. Polly does 
not. And I don’t like Polly. Polly can’t make me 
out. She is sharp, very sharp. But of course she 
does not suspect my identity. Oh, and I discovered 
this.” 

She produced a bit of tallow candle, and held it up 
for Grey to look at. 

“What is that ?” Grey inquired, though he was seated 
quite close. 

“What do you think it is, Mr. Grey?” she said with a 
curious smile. “What should you suppose it is? An 
orange? A bunch of grapes? Perhaps the smell may 
help you,” and she held it near his nose. 



66 THREE KNOTS 

“Oh, as if I couldn’t see!” he exclaimed, drawing 
hack. 

“Then why did you ask ?” 

“I am sure I don’t know. Why do we ask many 
questions, the replies to which are obvious? But what 
of this discovery of a bit of tallow candle? I don’t see 
what it leads to ?” 

“You wouldn’t. Yet there was a bit of tallow candle 
in the bundle found by some trippers and taken to the 
police, you remember. Now, if this broken bit-” 

“I follow you now.” 

“Unlooked-for acumen! Moreover, tallow candles 
are never used in Gareth Cottage. Charlotte told me 
that the mistress would never have ‘them nasty things’ 
inside the house! She declared with emphasis, when I 
egged her on by telling her there was a smell of tallow 
candle in her pantry, which of course there was not, 
that during all the years she had been with the Ash- 
combes, no tallow candle had ever been bought. 

“That clinched it. It was what I wanted to find out. 
This bit of tallow candle, then, which I found amongst 
some refuse in an old coal scuttle in the outhouse in the 
garden—the scuttle I saw had not been emptied for 
many weeks—must have been brought into the house by 
some one, some stranger. 

“What stranger? Well, my theory is that it was 
dropped in the room or outside the window on the night 
of the crime. Probably outside the window, as if left in 
the room, it would probably have been noticed, by the 
police. Charlotte, or the woman help who comes in 
daily, must have picked it up and tossed it into the 
scuttle along with other scraps when tidying up the 
place. It would never have occurred to either to think 
where it came from.” 



SURPRISING DEVELOPMENTS 67 

“And is that the only actual clue, or supposed clue, 
you have discovered while at the cottage?” 

“Oh, no, there is this too.” 

From between her thumb and forefinger, she let drop 
on the little table, a tiny brass brad, a quarter of an 
inch long at most. 

“Now, don’t say—‘What is it?’—again, Mr. Grey. 
You know as well as I do what it is. It comes out of 
the sole of a boot. It was lying in a bottom corner of 
the window sash. How did it get there? It couldn’t 
have jumped there. Either it was dropped there acci¬ 
dentally, or put there intentionally. There are no chil¬ 
dren in the house, so it would not have been put there* 
Therefore it must have been dropped there. It dropped 
out of the sole of the boot of the person who entered 
through the window to commit the crime. 

“But the deep scratches on the wall-plaster of the 
house, on both sides of the rain-pipe, were made by boot 
soles heavily shod with iron. Such boots would not have 
brass brads. On the other hand, a pair of Mrs. Ash- 
combe’s thick walking-boots have brass brads, and some 
of the brads are missing. This brad exactly fitted the 
holes in her boots where the brads are missing. I know 
because I tried it.” 

Grey had been listening attentively. 

All this time Irene Baxter had been talking in the 
assumed voice in which she had spoken at first. It was 
not a deep voice, not the rough, loud voice in which she 
had spoken in the cave, but none the less obviously a 
man’s voice. She seemed to speak so without the 
slightest effort. Anyone hearing her might well have 
believed the voice to be her ordinary, natural one. 

“By the way, have you dined?” she suddenly asked. 

“Yes, I have. I dined early in order to be free when 


68 


THREE KNOTS 


your friend arrived , 99 he answered, laughing. “I quite 
expected a woman, you know.” 

“I knew you would. I intended that you should. 
Incidentally, there is one thnig I have not told you.” 

“What is that?” 

“Mrs. Ashcombe is partial to fortune-tellers, palm¬ 
ists, clairvoyants and people of that sort. I guessed 
that the first day I went to her, from a casual remark 
she made to Polly. That was why I w^as reading the 
fortune-telling book when you all came into the kitchen 
last night. She had told me she meant to bring you in 
to see the cooking-range, and of course I knew at once 
what she really wanted to show you was me. She rose 
beautifully to the bait, didn’t she, when I said I knew a 
wonderful clairvoyante in London. This morning, as I 
expected she would, she got me alone and asked me all 
about her—‘Satanella’ was the name, you remember. 
This afternoon I heard her telling Polly that she would 
have to go to town on Monday ‘to see those tiresome 
lawyers again.’ She is really going up to see Satanella 
or she would take Polly with her. Polly is annoyed at 
being left behind. And Satanella, who at present does 
not exist, will exist on Monday, and until Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe had paid her a visit. For one of my associates 
will be Satanella. She has received her instructions 
to-day by code wire. I have rooms in several parts of 
London I keep always ready in case they may be needed 
for some such purpose as this.” 

Had Irene Baxter left then it would have been best 
for both, but neither could foresee what was so soon to 
happen. Irene Baxter seemed satisfied with the small 
discoveries she had made; Grey, on the contrary, was 
disappointed. He had expected her, unreasonably 
enough, practically to solve the mystery whilst at 


SURPRISING DEVELOPMENTS 


69 


Gareth Cottage, and certainly to suspect definitely some 
particular individual of having committed the crime. 
Even while talking to her he began to wonder if he had 
done right in employing a woman detective in preference 
to a man. In the police he had lost confidence long 
since. 

Up to the present the only individual there seemed 
reason to suspect, was Mrs. Ashcombe herself, and even 
she could be suspected only of being implicated at most. 
Of late there had been floating rumours regarding Mrs. 
Ashcombe’s chauffeur, but as he had been in Exeter with 
Mrs. Ashcombe on the night of the crime .... 

But had he been in Exeter? That was a question 
that had passed from lip to lip. For that matter had 
Mrs. Ashcombe herself been in Exeter? Attempts to 
prove that she had received a telegram that evening had 
all proved abortive. There was only her word to go on. 
And her friend, who was supposed to have died, who was 
she and where had she been buried ? 

Nobody knew. 

Neither did Grey nor Irene Baxter know anything 
of the little scene enacted on the night Polly had read 
the newspaper paragraph to her mother, for Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe had asked Polly and Charlotte to say nothing 
about it to anyone. Had they known, any suspicion 
they might have had about Mrs. Ashcombe would assur¬ 
edly have been intensified. 

Grey was disappointed, too, at Miss Baxter not 
having succeeded in discovering what part of Great 
Britain the Ashcombes came from, or where they had 
dwelt immediately before coming to settle in Devon¬ 
shire. Without a doubt there was some mystery about 
them. Nobody knew even how long Mrs. Ashcombe had 
been a widow. Grey thought that the detective would 


THREE KNOTS 


fTO 

have found out all this, and much more, from Charlotte, 
who was known to have been in the Ashcombes’ service 
many years. But not a bit of it. Apparently she had 
elicited nothing whatever from Charlotte. 

They were now sitting in silence, each apparently 
deep in thought. Irene knew exactly, by some strange 
intuition, the impression Grey had just formed of her 
efforts at discovery, and she knew he was disappointed. 
Somehow this piqued her. She wished to maintain her 
professional reputation, but, more than that, she felt 
she wanted to please Grey—and not merely because he 
employed her. 

Why, then? 

She asked herself this question, and could not answer 
it. Did she like Grey? Yes, she liked him. She thought 
she liked him very much. For an instant she wondered 
if she did not like him better than any man she had as 
yet met, so far as she could remember. 

“Oh, what nonsense!” she suddenly exclaimed 
mentally. “If I let thoughts like that get the better 
of me, I shall presently be growing sentimental.’* 

For she was one of those young women, they are more 
numerous than is commonly supposed, who profess to 
sneer at sentiment and all approaching it, and mean to 
live only for their ambitions. 

She glanced across at him as she sat with his chin 
resting upon his hand, his elbow on his knee—a charac¬ 
teristic attitude. He truly was good-looking, very 
good-looking indeed. Not in the commonly accepted 
meaning of the words, so much as in the strength of 
character that marked his features and his expression. 
His features were not regular. He had not a classic 
profile, or wonderful eyes, or arched brows, or a Grecian 
nose, or a well-shaped chin. He had a firm chin, a 


SURPRISING DEVELOPMENTS 


71 


straight mouth, with a curious little “lift” at the 
corners, clear, sun-tanned skin, and very white teeth. 
His eyes were almost steel grey and full of intelligence, 
with long dark lashes. His brown hair had a kink 
behind the ears, which somehow she liked. 

She was about to speak, to say she really must be 
leaving as she must be in by ten. when she heard the 
door-bell ring. 

Grey looked up quickly. 

“Who can that be, I wonder,” he said. “I never have 
visitors at this time.” 

Some moments later they heard voices in the hall. 
Two men were talking to Jobbins, Grey’s manservant. 
He seemed to be protesting. They remained insistent. 

Grey rose, and opened the door of his room. 

“Who is that, Jobbins?” he called out. 

“They want to see you, please, sir.” 

“Well, show them in, whoever they are!” 

Reluctantly Jobbins led the way. Two constables in 
uniform entered the room. They came from the Shad- 
combe Constabulary, and both were known to Grey. 

“We should prefer to see you alone, sir,” one of 
them said in an embarrassed tone. “The matter we 
have to see you about is private.” 

“You can go, Jobbins,” said Grey. 

When the door was shut he added, addressing the 
constable and indicating Irene Baxter: 

“You can speak before this gentleman.” 

“We would sooner not, sir.” 

“I tell you you may. Now what is it?” 

“Well, sir, as you say so I suppose we must.” 

He produced a blue document. 

“I have here, sir, a warrant of arrest.” 

“Arrest? Whose arrest?” 


72 


THREE KNOTS 


“Your arrest, sir.” 

“My arrest! What do you mean?” 

“I will read it to you, sir,” and he proceeded to do so. 

For a moment, Grey did not speak. Then he said 
calmly: 

“I will come with you. Will you have anything 
before we leave, either of you?” and he indicated the 
tantalus. 

He turned to his guest. 

“You have heard the warrant read,” he said. “What 
do you make of it at all?” 

“I am only surprised,” she announced in a curious 
tone, not loud enough for the police to hear, “I am only 
surprised it has been so long coming.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THROUGH THE MISTS 

Irene Baxter accompanied Grey to the Police Station. 
Since his arrest she had not spoken, and he felt puzzled 
to account for her silence. Also her curt answer, that 
she was surprised he had not been arrested sooner, had 
amazed him. 

Could she suspect him? It seemed impossible. If so, 
then she must be the most accomplished hypocrite he 
had ever met. It seemed hardly credible, too, that while 
engaged by him to try to discover Ella Ashcombe’s 
murderer she should all the time have been suspecting 
him of being implicated in the crime. 

At the Police Station she was asked her name and 
address. She produced from her bag a letter addressed 
to “Walter Shedbeau” at an address in London, and 
they copied the name and address. She said she had 
come down from London that day, and was returning 
to town by the night mail. 

Then she turned abruptly to Grey. 

“Good-night, Mr. Grey,” she said, extending her 
hand. “You know where to find me if you want me.” 

“Good-night, and thank you for coming with me. 
Of course, the charge is ridiculous. I shall clear myself 
at once.” 

“I hope so,” she answered, again in the tone in which 
73 


74 THREE KNOTS 

she had said, “I am only surprised it has been so long 
coming.” 

He opened his lips as if about to speak again; then 
thought better of it and remained silent. 

Next day but one the provincial journals reported 
his arrest in big headlines. And again, fickle as ever, 
the people of the town and district chatteringly agreed 
that “there must be something in it.” 

Meanwhile, in a first-floor room of a house in Edg- 
ware Road, a fearsome-looking woman, arrayed as a 
“mystic,” sat awaiting the arrival of a client. 

She expected only one client, and that client had not 
made an appointment. But she knew she would arrive 
in London from Devonshire early in the afternoon, and 
therefore guessed that she would come to see her before 
nightfall. Nor was she mistaken. At twenty minutes 
past five a knock came at the outer door on the landing. 

Satanella pressed a button, and the catch of the 
door clicked. The visitor, entering timidly, found her¬ 
self in a small, dimly-lit ante-room which appeared 
to have no windows. The door behind her shut 
automatically. 

No sound was audible. Impatiently, feeling rather 
nervous, she waited. She waited nearly five minutes. 
Then curtains at the end of the little room, which was 
rather long and narrow, parted silently of their own 
accord. After a minute’s hesitation Mrs. Ashcombe 
rose, and passed under them. At once they closed as 
mysteriously they had parted. 

She was standing in a passage, draped with black on 
either side, and with a heavy black carpet which ren¬ 
dered her footfalls inaudible. She was almost in dark¬ 
ness. At the end of the passage, an orange shaded lamp 
cast a circle of dim light down upon the carpet. It was 


THROUGH THE MISTS 


75 


all so mysterious, she began to wish she had not come. 
Yet this very atmosphere of mystery attracted her, as 
it attracts, without their knowing it, the majority of 
gullible folk who patronise such “mystics.” 

At the end of the passage, where the lamp burned, 
she caught her breath. A figure, all in black, stood 
there. A black cowl concealed the face, and the hands 
were also hidden. It was motionless, so motionless, that 
for the first moments she doubted if it really were 
alive. 

When, at last, it slowly raised its head, she saw a 
face deathly white. The eyes were black as pitch. The 
lips were red, artificially coloured. It looked her in the 
eyes without the flicker of an eyelid, for some moments. 
Then at last it spoke. The voice was deep, cadaverous. 

“You have come—to consult—the oracle?” it asked. 
The words were spoken slowly, very clearly. 

She murmured that she had. 

“You have come a great way, I see. Two hundred 
miles or more. Come, woman.” 

The figure lifted the black curtain with its arm, and 
Mrs. Ashcombe entered. 

She was in a room lit by little lamps, all heavily 
shaded. All in this room, too, was black. The table 
was black oak. The two fauteuils were upholstered in 
black. The walls were hung with black draperies. The 
ceiling looked like ebony. It was all most depressing 
and rather weird. 

The figure pointed to a fauteuil, and Mrs. Ashcombe 
sank down into it. The figure sat opposite and re¬ 
mained motionless, bolt upright, looking at her hard. 

“I know everything about you,” it said at last. 
“Everything. I cannot tell you all, it is too—too 
terrible.” 


76 


THREE KNOTS 


“Please, I want everything to be told,” Mrs. Ash- 
combe murmured quickly. 

“I cannot—I dare not. Give me both your hands.” 

She did so. The figure’s hands were cold and moist. 
Thus for a minute they remained without speaking. 
Then the figure said, still in a deep, sepulchral 
tone: 

“You have come all this way especially to see me. 
You started early and arrived this afternoon. You 
have a daughter. I can see her. She is quite young. 
I see another daughter, she is like her, very like her, 
but I see her only dimly. Yes, she is dead. She died 
lately, some months or so ago—three months' ago—ah!” 

She dropped Mrs. Ashcombe’s hands as though they 
had suddenly stung her. 

“Woman!” she exclaimed abruptly, in a tragic tone, 
“woman, how can you come to me with blood upon your 
hands.” 

Her victim by this time was trembling all over. 

“I did not—I swear to you—I did not .... and 
yet .... ” 

Her mouth and throat were dry. Try as she would 
she could not speak. 

“You did not, that I see,” Satanella continued, 
“but he-” 

“Ah, don’t—don’t say the name, I beseech of you,” 
Mrs. Ashcombe implored. She was perspiring all over. 
Her bosom rose and fell. She was terribly distressed. 

“No, I will not say the name, but I know it as I know 
your name. Your name begins with A. It ends with E. 
Now do you doubt my knowledge of your past life?” 

“I never doubted it.” 

The woman trembled. 

“Everything you say to me is secret, woman, as secret 



THROUGH THE MISTS 


77 


as your knowledge of who killed your daughter Ella.” 
Mrs. Ashcombe sprang up. 

“Who are you?” she cried excitedly. “Who told you 
all this?” 

“Woman, be calm,” Satanella went on in the same 
cadaverous tones. “None told me. I read the past 
of all who come to me, as I can read their future. As I 
look at you now, I see, as in a haze about you, a 
pretty country cottage. It has a thatched roof. It is 
curiously designed. Over the door there is a porch. 
A little porch of plaited straw. I see people in the 
house. Men. Two men. They are young,” and she 
went on to describe Gerald Grey, and afterwards Bobbie 
Tolhurst. 

“The taller of the two is in trouble,” she went on, 
“in dire distress. He has been arrested. He is sus¬ 
pected of-” 

She stopped abruptly. Mrs. Ashcombe had reseated 
herself. 

“Woman,” the figure said suddenly, “where is your 
husband now?” 

“I cannot say. I do not know,” she cried. “Indeed, 
indeed, I do not.” 

“I could tell you, but I will not. And tell me this, 
although I know it, why did you, until lately, conceal 
the existence of your other daughter?” 

“I had to. There were reasons . . . 

“What reasons?” 

“Must I say?” 

“Why fear, as I already know? This daughter, so 
like your other child that she might well be a twin, is— 
is not your husband’s child.” 

Though merely a guess, it proved correct, for Mrs. 
Ashcombe bowed her head. 



78 


THREE KNOTS 


“She is my dead sister’s child. I have been keeping 
her, unknown to my husband, for several years. If the 
discovery had been made, my husband would have been 
annoyed; he is a most violent man. But he was abroad, 
had been abroad for two years. I paid someone to mind 
her and bring her up. Then, when my daughter died, 
I felt I must have Polly. I loved her. I had always 
loved her, though I had seen her only rarely. Now I 
could not do without her.” 

“And your husband?” 

“For years I have not seen him, and yet I love him 
still. Oh, I love him most intensely. Cannot you send 
him back to me, as you must know where he is?” 

Suddenly she sat up. 

“Where is he? Oh, tell me where he is !” 

“That I must not—yet. And I must not explain 
why. If you come to me again, some day, perhaps 
then . . . .” 

She stopped. She was staring into vacancy over 
Mrs. Ashcombe’s shoulder. Her eyes were fixed. The 
eyelids did not quiver. Then, all at once, they seemed 
to focus something. 

“I see him—I can see him dimly—ah, now more 
distinctly . . . .” 

“Who? Who?” Mrs. Ashcombe cried. “My 
husband ?” 

“No, the man, the father of your sister’s child. He is 
dying. Someone is beside him, bending over him—a 
woman. He is whispering to her. Now her lips are 
pressed upon his forehead . . . .” 

Suddenly she fixed Mrs. Ashcombe with her gaze. 

“You are the woman,” she said slowly. “The man is 
dying—he has telegraphed for you to come. He died 
recently, about the time your daughter died—it may 


THROUGH THE MISTS 


79 


have been the same day. He sent for you and you went 
to him at once. Is not that what happened?” 

“Yes! Oh, yes,” Mrs. Ashcombe stammered out be¬ 
tween her sobs, for she was now weeping bitterly. “He 
died in Exeter the very night poor Ella died. It was 
so long since I had seen him.” 

“Woman, you lie! He did not die in Exeter.” 

“No, but very near. The village where he died 
is called Kenton. His death was very sudden. By 
mere chance, before he died, he found I lived in 
Shadcombe.” 

Satanella rose slowly. 

“I cannot tell you more—now,” she said. “But you 
will come again.” 

“But the future,” Mrs. Ashcombe exclaimed eagerly, 
extending her arm as though she would detain the 
mystic. “I must know about my future, know what is 
to become of me . . . .” 

“In a case such as yours the strain upon the mystic 
is too great,” Satanella continued solemnly. “I have 
told you your past. You have confided in me now. 
You will come again. Then I will tell you your 
future.” 

“But when? How soon?” 

“In thirty days from now. Not one day sooner.” 

Out in the street again, Mrs. Ashcombe breathed 
more freely. Truth to tell, the woman had alarmed her 
more than she would admit. Never before in her ex¬ 
perience of clairvoyants—and she had visited many— 
had revelations so uncanny been made to her. The 
woman was marvellous, she told herself. And she must 
know the murderer. That was terrible to think of. 

Yet not once did it occur to her to think there might 
be collusion between Satanella and her cook. 


80 


THREE KNOTS 


That evening Irene Baxter’s principal detective, sat 
writing in the offices of the Detective Agency in Oxford 
Street. The letter to her “chief” contained a concisely- 
worded record of her interview with Mrs. Ashcombe. 
By midnight it was posted. By noon next day Irene 
had received it. 

So that was the secret of Polly’s concealment during 
all that time. And she was not a twin at all. Small 
wonder, under the circumstances, she should be so dif¬ 
ferent in character and temperament from what her 
sister had been, Irene reflected as she refolded the letter. 
It was satisfactory to know for certain that Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe was not a widow, though this she had suspected 
from the first. Of course, now she understood why 
mystery had been made of the friend who died in 
Exeter. 

Well, a scandal of that description would have set 
Shadcombe talking, and all the neighbourhood too. 
For in a small provincial town a woman deemed to be 
respectable, and then found not to be, is soon made to 
realise her position most acutely. 

One thing her colleague had not discovered, and at 
this Irene was disappointed. No mention was made of 
the town or county where the Ashcombes had formerly 
lived. Mrs. Ashcombe had travelled largely, but she 
must have had a home. Perhaps at the next seance this 
would be disclosed. 

Next morning cook announced that she wished to 
leave. Oh, no, she had nothing to find fault with. Her 
mistress had been most considerate, most kind. The 
situation suited her in every way, but one. That “one” 
was the climate. She found it too relaxing. She needed 
bracing air, and she needed a sandy soil. Clay soil, red 
earth, and a sea atmosphere never had agreed with her, 


THROUGH THE MISTS 81 

she declared. She would leave at once and forfeit a 
month’s wages. 

As she returned to her kitchen after the interview, 
she reflected that a great change had come over Mrs. 
Ashcombe. She looked serious, pensive, and extremely 
worried. 


CHAPTER VHI 


MR. OCTAVIUS MILO 

The Court was/ crowded when Gerald Grey came up for 
cross-examination. 

The cross-examiner was a tall, thin-lipped, clean¬ 
shaven gentleman accustomed to intimidating and brow¬ 
beating defenseless witnesses. His common mode of 
procedure was, first of all, to harass and bully his 
victim until the latter either lost his temper, or became 
hopelessly confused, and then to loose off at him, with 
the rapidity of a machine-gun, a number of pointed 
questions, in the hope that one or more of them would 
trip him up. Generally the plan succeeded, with the 
result that counsel obtained considerable kudos. Yet 
in point of fact he was not clever. All he could boast 
was a measure of low cunning and an acid tongue. 

“You say that on the night of February the sixteenth 
last,” he observed, looking sharply over his glasses at 
Grey as he set him this initial question, “you were at 
home drafting a conveyance. Did you receive any 
visitor that evening? Did any clerk, for instance, come 
to see you on any matter?” 

“Nobody came to see me.” 

“I understand your servant, Jobbins, was away on 
holiday.” 

“He was.” 

“A fortunate misfortune, eh?” 

82 


MR. OCTAVIUS MILO 


83 


He smiled sarcastically, 

“So that nobody saw you between,” he referred to his 
notes, “between six o’clock in the evening on the six¬ 
teenth, when you left your office, and seven o’clock on 
the morning of the seventeenth, when your man, Job- 
bins, came in to call you?” 

Grey nodded. 

“Please don’t nod,” examining Counsel said petu¬ 
lantly. “Answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ ” 

“No, nobody,” 

“I suppose on the sixteenth you dined somewhere?” 

“Cold supper was left out for me. I ate it about nine 
o’clock.” 

“You have a singularly retentive memory, Mr. Grey,” 
his examiner said with a sneer. “I could not remember 
the exact time at which I partook of any particular 
meal on some particular day three or four months ago.” 

“Possibly not. I have a good memory. An excellent 
memory.” 

“So it would appear,” ironically. “On the other hand 
as your man ‘happened’ to be absent that night, and as 
you ‘happened’ to have a cold supper, unobserved, that 
night; and as it ‘happens’ nobody saw you from six in 
the evening until seven next morning, it also ‘happens’ 
we have only your word to go upon.” 

Grey flushed, but held himself in check. 

Counsel turned to the jury. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I will ask you to pay par¬ 
ticular attention to these unusual and most unfortunate 
‘happenings’ and to bear them well in mind.” 

The foreman of the jury nodded. A pompous crea¬ 
ture, bursting with his own importance, he was then 
and there prejudiced against Grey. 

“Now,” Counsel continued, “on the night of February 


84 


THREE KNOTS 


the nineteenth, the day of the inquest, you were alone 
in your bedroom, in your house in Landscore, Shad- 
combe, with the door locked; you were heard to lock it. 
This was between ten and midnight. You were further 
heard, as your two maidservants will presently testify, 
walking restlessly up and down the room. Several times 
you uttered exclamations aloud, as though you were 
greatly perturbed. And upon one of these occasions 
you exclaimed ‘Why did I do it—why did I do it!’ Why 
had you done what?” 

A murmur of interest rippled through the court, but 
was at once suppressed. 

Grey’s fingers, resting upon the rail of the witness- 
box, twitched nervously. 

“I really cannot remember,” he said after a pause. 

“Ho! I thought you had such a good memory!” 

There was some tittering at the back of the court, 
and the foreman of the jury made a note upon his 
shirt-cuff. 

“He ‘really’ cannot remember,” Counsel repeated 
with a sneer. “There are some things he may find it 
inconvenient to remember. It is like the man who lends 
money and borrows money. He remembers the one and 
forgets the other.” 

Grey bit his lip, then gave a slight start. He had 
caught sight of Irene Baxter seated at the back of the 
court. He had not known she was there. Since the 
night of his arrest he had neither heard from her nor 
seen her. What could be her object, he wondered, in 
coming here now? He noticed that she gazed at him 
with a curious, tense expression. 

Once more Counsel referred to his notes. Then he 
threw back his head again, stared at Grey over his 
glasses in a peculiarly offensive way, and said: 


MR. OCTAVIUS MILO 


85 


“You have an acquaintance, I believe, living here in 
Exeter, who, like yourself, is a solicitor. His name is 
Octavius Milo. Am I correct?” 

“Quite.” 

Counsel turned again to the jury. 

“Gentlemen,” he said in a conversational tone. “I 
would like to draw your attention to the reticence of the 
witness. His replies to my questions are mostly mono¬ 
syllables, just as, I am told, he replied to questions at 
the inquest on the body of the murdered girl. But this, 
of course, is by the way.” 

Once more he faced Grey and said: 

“This Mr. Octavius Milo, who at present is abroad, 
was a rival of yours in profession. But he was more 
than that. I understand that he greatly admired Miss 
Ella Ashcombe, to whom you were affianced. I have 
evidence to prove that, on more than one occasion, he 
and you exchanged some very high words, and that on 
one occasion, some days before Miss Ashcombe’s death, 
you threatened to strike him. Is that so?” 

“That is perfectly correct.” 

“And is it also ‘perfectly correct’ that the next time 
you met Miss Ashcombe you spoke to her in a very auto¬ 
cratic way upon the subject of her friendship with Mr. 
Octavius Milo?” 

“I believe I did.” 

“You ‘believe* so. You are not sure? Perhaps that 
brilliant memory of yours is at fault again.” 

“Well, yes. I did say some rather harsh things, I 
admit.” 

“And that was the last time you spoke to her before 
her death?” 

Grey caught his breath. He had to swallow before 
answering. Then he said: 


86 


THREE KNOTS 


“It was. And that was what I referred to when alone 
in my room on the night of the inquest, I exclaimed 
aloud, ‘Why did I, do it ?’ I was greatly upset.” 

“You must have been,” counsel answered, nettled that 
one of his points against his victim should thus unex¬ 
pectedly have been discounted. 

At that moment Grey caught Irene Baxter’s eye 
again. She was smiling. 

Thus for nearly an hour he was cross-examined. But 
none of counsel’s sarcastic comments, offensive insinua¬ 
tions, or implied insults was successful in rousing his 
temper—outwardly. Though inwardly furious, he ap¬ 
peared calm and unmoved. 

Other witnesses were called, for and against him. 
There were his two maids, who had been subpoenaed on 
the strength of statements they had made to servants 
in the house next door. They liked their master, and 
were terribly upset at being forced to give evidence 
against him. 

Jobbins was cross-examined, and at once lost his 
temper. He said he had naught but good to say of his 
master who had “always treated him as a gentleman 
should.” No, he knew nothing whatever of his master’s 
habits or movements. He added that even had he known 
he would have refused to say anything, and was 
promptly called to order. Mrs. Ashcombe became hys¬ 
terical and had to be removed. Polly’s answers amused 
the court, but annoyed counsel exceedingly. The chauf¬ 
feur, Tom, was quickly dismissed. Many a sovereign 
and half-sovereign of Grey’s had found its way into his 
pocket from first to last, and he had no wish to slay 
the goose lest it should lay no more golden eggs. 
Charlotte’s evidence was contradictory and futile. 
Counsel’s bullying seemed to paralyse her senses. 


MR. OCTAVIUS MILO 


87 


A witness who puzzled every one a good deal was the 
Chief Constable, who had been present at the inquest. 
A big, burly man with a shaven, bullet head, he seemed 
nervous as a child. He made statements, retracted 
what he had said, qualified assertions he had put for¬ 
ward a moment before and appeared, before the end, 
almost to have lost his wits. Yet he was known to be, 
on all ordinary occasions, a first-rate witness, plain and 
straightforward in his evidence. Everybody noticed 
his uneasiness and thought it most peculiar. 

What surprised every one was that no mention had 
been made of the bundle tied up with tarred twine that 
had been found near Hole Head and handed to the 
police. 

Nothing had been heard of the mysterious bundle 
since that paragraph describing it and its discovery 
had appeared in the Express and Echo —at least so it 
was said. Yet the packet of letters found in it was 
supposed to have contained information which had led 
to the arrest of Gerald Grey. 

One outcome of Grey’s cross-examination was a curi¬ 
ous light shed upon the private life of Octavius Milo. 

Milo, it seemed, had been in practice in Exeter eleven 
years. He had been born and educated “somewhere 
abroad.” That he was clever, everybody admitted. 
Unfortunately, his professional methods were not all 
deemed to be “professional” in the sense in which that 
word is understood by lawyers admittedly above 
suspicion. 

Nothing could actually be said against him, that is to 
say, no act which he had committed could be pronounced 
to be dishonest. But some of his methods were what is 
known as “shady.” Still, he invariably “got there” 
and that, after all, was what his clients paid him to do. 


88 


THREE KNOTS 


Eor instance, on one rather famous occasion, when a 
certain decision had rested with a show of hands, he had 
suddenly stood up at the shareholders* meeting, and 
cried: 

“Those in favour hold up their hands.” 

Many hands had been raised, and Milo had counted 
them at great speed. Then he had cried again: 

“Those who are not in favour, hold up their hands,’* 
and again he had counted rapidly. 

“The ‘ayes’ have it,” he had said calmly and then 1 
resumed his seat. 

Yet in point of fact, the “nays” had a majority. 
Nobody, however, had checked his count and by this 
bit of smartness he had saved the shareholders, for 
whom he was acting, several hundreds of pounds. 

It is Octavius Milo’st private life, however, with which 
we are more particularly concerned. 

He was not married. Yet there were rumours . . . 
Well, they were strange rumours, to say the least, and 
they did not redound to his credit. Really they were 
more than rumours, for certain facts had come to light. 

There is no need to describe them in detail. Only 
they were such that fond mothers, resident in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, were wont to look askance at Milo, or, at, 
most, be only coldly polite to him. 

But there was one thing that most women did not 
like about him. It was obvious to all that he had 
Eurasian blood in his veins. He was singularly dark- 
skinned. His smooth hair was black as ink. His eyes— 
very line eyes—were like bits of jet. Also he had what 
is commonly called a “piercing gaze.” 

He often went abroad, nobody knew exactly where. 
As a rule he was absent from a month to six weeks. 
Now he had been absent since Ella Ashcombe’s death, 


MR. OCTAVIUS MILO 


89 


about three months. In his absence his managing 
clerk, a qualified solicitor enough, but, as the towns¬ 
people said, “obviously not a gentleman,” carried on 
his practice. 

In the Shadcombe Club, a cosy nook that formerly 
was a private residence, and that lies tucked away in a 
private garden on the outskirts of Shadcombe, close to 
the sea wall, elderly gentlemen foregather daily, about 
noon, to discuss local happenings and pronounce mo¬ 
mentous decisions on the great events of the day. 

It was one morning, a week after Grey’s cross-exam¬ 
ination, that several of these members were seated in 
the Club kiosk, discussing events and at intervals peer¬ 
ing out at sea, or at bathers on the beach through the 
long telescope, which, mounted on a tripod, protrudes 
over the Cliff Walk like a gun from its concealed 
emplacement. 

“Deuced queer thing,” one of them presently re¬ 
marked. “Deuced queer. Octavius Milo is supposed to 
be abroad, yet I saw him twice while I was at Win¬ 
chester the other day.” 

“Really? What was he doing?” a retired Colonel, 
the local quidnunc, inquired, metaphorically cocking 
his ear. 

“Oh, rambling about—with a lady.” 

“A lady? Who was she?” 

“Ask me another. The first time was in Bereweek 
Road, a little-frequented road just outside the town, 
beyond the station. He was walking with her. I caught 
only a glimpse of her as my taxi went by, but I saw 
she was good-looking and very well-dressed. The other 
time was right away on Mornhill, near the site of the old 
leper hospital—a stone with an inscription marks the 
spot, you know, about two miles out of the town. I hap- 


90 


THREE KNOTS 


pened to pass a turn in the lane, and there they both 
were standing close by—I could hear their voices. They 
were talking very earnestly and I distinctly heard Milo 
mention Gerald Grey’s name.” 

“But didn’t he see you?” 

“No, neither time. I looked away quickly the second 
time. I didn’t want to be recognized.” 

At this juncture a younger member, who for some 
minutes had been looking intently through the telescope 
at a black speck some miles out at sea, turned suddenly. 

“Funny your speaking of Milo,” he said. “Here 
he is.” 

“Here! Where?” 

“Sailing in a skiff. If that isn’t Milo lying back in 
the stern holding that girl’s hands, I’ll—well, I’ll treat 
you all to cigars.” 

The retired Colonel sprang to his feet. He was an 
active old gentleman with quite white hair. 

“By Jove, so it is!” he exclaimed, after glueing his 
eye to the glass. “What’s more, they are quarrelling.” 

“Having the deuce of a row, I should say,” the first 
speaker said with a laugh. 

And then, each in turn, the five satisfied themselves 
that no mistake had been made. 

The Colonel sat down again. 

“They are making the harbour,” he remarked care¬ 
lessly. “I shall happen to be there when they land.” 

Then he smiled significantly, rose, and went out. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE DANCER IN YELLOW 

San Francisco has been called the most vicious city 
in the world. In point of fact it is nothing of the sort. 
Port Said, for instance, is infinitely worse; but it is 
doubtful whether any one town in any “civilised” coun¬ 
try is really much worse than any other, in respect to 
vice. It is mostly a case of what we see and what we 
don’t see. Where evil is uncloaked it naturally follows 
that evil is deemed to be more prevalent there. 

Before the earthquake, the City of the Golden Gate, 
as San Francisco is sometimes called, was certainly one 
of the most cosmopolitan towns in America, ranking in 
that respect probably next to New Orleans. Since the 
earthquake its cosmopolitanism has increased. To-day 
on Market Street at any time of day, and during most 
hours of the night, you will meet men and women of 
almost every nationality. Plutocrats and other rich 
folk stay mostly at the Palace Hotel. Drummers, i.e ., 
commercial travellers, patronise the Bay, the Dromio 
and the San Salvador. Men and women of leisure but 
of modest means foregather largely at the Ibex. 

In the stage-box of the Midway Plaisaunce Theatre 
of Varieties in ’Frisco a rough-looking man of sea¬ 
faring aspect sat alone with his head resting between 
his hands, staring at a lightly-draped artist in yellow, 
performing a dance which, though applauded in 
91 


92 


THREE KNOTS 


that none-too-refined temple of entertainment, would 
scarcely have been tolerated by any London audi¬ 
ence. 

When she had finished, and had bowed and bowed 
again her appreciation of the ovation accorded to her 
by a tumultuous house, and then given an encore and 
retired, the man in the box sat down slowly, leaned back 
in his chair, blew a cloud of smoke out into the audi¬ 
torium and exclaimed in a gruff voice: 

“Say, that puts the loop round it!” 

He pressed a button and a chocolate-coloured attend¬ 
ant in white ducks with red-and-gold facings brought 
him a gin-fizz, the drink peculiar to New Orleans and 
San Francisco. 

“Say, sonny,” the man said after tossing the lad a 
dollar and telling him to keep the change, “I want to 
meet that gurl after the show.” 

“Yes, sah.” 

The boy grinned, showing white teeth. 

“Tell her it’s Wal Marner and he’s in—whatever this 
box is.” 

“Yes, sah. And if she says ‘No,’ sah?” 

“She won’t say ‘No,’ if you say it’s Wal Marner. 
Nobody has ever yet said ‘No’ to Wal Marner, and no¬ 
body ever will. Say, you never heard of Wal Marner?” 

“No, sah.” 

“No, sah,” he mimicked. “Then come right here, 
shake right here,” and he took the lad’s hand and shook 
it warmly. “A lad of your size and never heard o’ Wal 
Marner is some freak kid. And now git!” 

The rest of the performance apparently bored him, 
for he lay back in his chair, smoking with hardly a 
glance towards the stage. 


THE DANCER IN YELLOW 


93 


In a glittering saloon a man and woman sat at 
supper an hour later. It was nearly one in the morn¬ 
ing, and yet the place showed no sign of closing, and 
the band still played. Indeed fresh arrivals were still 
entering and ordering supper, or champagne, or both. 

“So you have been out from London a month,” the 
man named Marner said suddenly, as he refilled her 
glass. 

“Six weeks. Why, who told you?” 

“Never mind who told me. I know all about you— 
every thing. But to-night’s the first time I have seen 
you. Say, you’ve heard of me?” 

“Do you suppose if I hadn’t I’d have come when you 
asked me to like that?” And she gave her head a little 
toss. “I came because Eve so often heard of you, and 
so I wanted to see for myself the sort of man you are.” 

“Not heard much good of me, that I’ll be bound.” 

“No good at all, except that you are horribly rich.” 

Wal Marner laughed. 

“Ho! But now to come to what I sent for you for.” 

“Sent for me!” 

“Sent for you. There is a man in England I’m told 
you know—vurry, vurry well. He’s a lawyer. Lives in 
Exeter now. His name is Octavius Milo.” 

The woman sat bolt upright. Her face had suddenly 
flushed. She was not very good-looking, nor was she 
quite young, but she had fine eyes, and, judging by her 
expression, and her firm mouth, a good deal of 
character. 

“Who has told you all this about me, Mr. Marner?” 
she inquired with enforced calmness. 

“Never mind. I know, and that’s enough or should 
be. Octavius Milo did you down once, didn’t he?” 

“Once! Three or four times you mean. I forgave 


94 


THREE KNOTS 


him several times, but I never shall again—never. I 
don’t know why I ever did, except because-” 

“Because you loved him. A woman’ll do any fool 
thing when she loves a man. But let that go. Acting 
as your lawyer, wasn’t he, when he did you down?” 

“Yes. And in addition he openly robbed me of three 
thousand pounds.” 

“Good. Then you’d like to take it out of him, get 
back on him, eh?” 

“Indeed I would. I’d do anything to get back on 
him.” 

“Would you forge his name?” he asked quickly. 

She started. 

“Certainly not,” she said in a low tone. 

“Suppose I force you to?” 

“You couldn’t.” 

“You think not?” 

He gave a little chuckle, then slowly produced some 
letters from his pocket, enclosed in a stout envelope. 
The envelope looked as if it had been a long time in his 
pocket. 

“These scripts,” he remarked carelessly, as he shook 
them out into his hand, which he kept well out of her 
reach, “these scripts were forged, you hear what I say, 
forged by you: the man you forged them for is a friend 
of mine and has told me everything. You secured him a 
big sum of money by your penmanship, but he paid you 
your share.” 

He was looking at her cruelly. He saw how agitated 
she had become. 

“Mr. Marner,” she exclaimed in a weak voice, “for 
goodness’ sake give them to me.” 

“That is what I mean to do, provided . . . .” 

He stopped, his gaze still fixed upon her. 



THE DANCER IN YELLOW 


95 


“Oh, but I can’t. I can’t do that. I believe I know 
your plan now. I have guessed it. But think, what 
would happen to me if it were found out?” 

“It was not found out the last time,” he tapped the 
letters meaningly. “It won’t be found out this time 
neither.” 

“But it very nearly was, last time,” she exclaimed in 
a piteous voice. 

“It won’t be even very nearly this time. Gad! if I 
had your talent I’d be many times richer to-day than I 
already am. Many a time I have longed to have that 
talent that you possess—able to imitate handwriting so 
that nobody in the world can see the difference. What 
a gift to have if you have brains to match. And I’m 
sure you have the brains.” 

All this happened a good while before the elderly 
members of the Shadcombe Club had betrayed such deep 
interest in the doings of Octavius Milo and his com¬ 
panion in the boat. The retired Colonel, who had 
stumped all the way down to Shadcombe Harbour in 
order to catch a closer glimpse of Milo’s friend, had 
been disappointed. For the skiff, after tracking across 
the bar at the harbour’s mouth, had turned to the left 
and landed at Kingston, an old-world fishing village on 
the opposite side of the river. It had not occurred to 
the Colonel that this might happen, and in consequence 
he returned home to lunch in an exceedingly morose 
mood. 

From the boat the two had walked leisurely as far as 
Hunter’s Lodge, which faces thei approach to the bridge 
across the river. There they had entered a car awaiting 
them, and had at once started off up the steep two-mile 
hill in the direction of Torquay, 


96 


THREE KNOTS 


Milo was not in love with this newly-found friend of 
his, but was immensely attracted by her, that he him¬ 
self would readily have admitted. He had met her quite 
by accident at dinner one night at an hotel in Shrews¬ 
bury. They had happened to dine at the same table, 
the room being crowded, owing to Race Week, and con¬ 
versation had been started by her upsetting a glass of 
wine and then apologising to him profusely for her 
carelessness. 

“Really it is not of the slightest consequence,” he 
had answered good-humouredly. As the meal pro¬ 
gressed he had incidentally mentioned that he was only 
passing through Shrewsbury, on his way to Winchester, 
where he meant to spend a week or two fishing. 

“What an odd coincidence,” she had answered. “I go 
to Winchester, too, next week. I have rented a little 
house just outside the town. Perhaps one day you will 
honour me with a visit.” 

“I shall be charmed,” he had at once answered. “You 
will give me your address there, before I leave 
to-morrow?” 

He liked her voice, he reflected that night as he pre¬ 
pared to go to bed. It had an unusual timbre which 
appealed to him. From the visitors’ register he had 
ascertained, before going upstairs, that she was a Mrs. 
Lethbridge, Mrs. Cyril Lethbridge. Had she a husband, 
he wondered? She had made no mention of any hus¬ 
band. But then, he remembered she had told him next 
to nothing about herself. 

And so it came about that in Winchester the chance 
acquaintanceship had ripened into friendship. Indeed, 
during their stay there, Milo went so far as to tell her 
a great deal about himself, a thing he rarely did to 
anybody. And she was growing fond of him. Of that 


THE DANCER IN YELLOW 97 

he felt certain. This knowledge somehow gratified his 
vanity. 

“Yes, I have travelled a good deal,” he said to her 
one evening, in answer to some remark. “Western 
America and the Pacific Slope I know well. In fact I 
returned from there only recently.” 

“Really? Why, how interesting. You were travelling 
for pleasure, I suppose?” 

“Yes, for pleasure—my annual long holiday.” 

“Oh, then you have a profession? Somehow I took 
you to be a man of leisure. I wonder what you are by 
profession?” 

“Well, if it interests you to know, I will tell you. 
I am a lawyer.” 

“A barrister?” 

“Oh, no, nothing so ambitious. Merely a solicitor, 
and a country solicitor at that—at Exeter.” 

“Exeter. I used to know some people down that way, 
the Willie Moncktons. Possibly you have met them.” 

“I have heard of them. They live in Shadcombe.” 

“Yes, that is the place. I met a charming man at 
their house; why, of course, he was a lawyer too. His 
name was Grey—Gerald Grey.” 

Milo looked at her sharply. A man was crossing the 
corner of the road. He was looking the other way, 
however, so they did not see his face. It was, as we 
know, the retired Colonel. 

“Gerald Grey?” Milo said after a moment’s pause. 
“Yes, I know him. At least I have met him. You 
thought him charming? Well, I can’t say I do. Some¬ 
thing shady about him, I am afraid, to say the 
least.” 

“Is there? Do tell me.” 

“You must never say I told you, if I do.” 


98 


THREE KNOTS 


“Of course I won’t. What is there shady about 
him ?” 

“Well, for one thing he is generally believed to know 
something about the murder of a girl to whom he was 
supposed to be engaged to be married, a girl called Ella 
Ashcombe. The affair made a great stir Devon way, 
at the time. Didn’t you read about it?” 

“No, I rarely read police news. Was it long 
ago ?” 

“Last February. Grey was arrested quite recently, 
on suspicion of being at any rate indirectly implicated 
in the crime, but as nothing could be actually proved 
they had to let him go again.” 

“How dreadful! Why, now I do remember something 
about the case, but I didn’t read it. A woman told me 
about it. A most wonderful professional dancer. Yes, 
that was the name—Ella Ashcombe. This woman, I 
must not tell you her name, had been odiously treated, 
swindled and openly robbed by some lawyer she had 
been in love with. I could not get her to say his name. 
She told me she had travelled with him in the States, the 
Western States, just where you have been. He told her 
some cock-and-bull story about mines and things out 
there—oh, I forget what it all was, at least I did not 
listen—and after gaining her confidence he decamped 
with over fifteen thousand dollars belonging to her. It 
was in California this happened, I remember her telling 
me, and she said that twice before he had robbed her, 
but on those occasions he robbed her indirectly in con¬ 
nection with some companies or other. Mustn’t he be 
a brute?” 

Milo swallowed. Then he said: 

“He must be, indeed. And about that murder, what 

did she say?” 


THE DANCER IN YELLOW 


99 


^That she knew all along the man who had swindled 
and robbed her had had a hand in it, and that she was 
going to expose him.” 

“She said that, did she?” Milo exclaimed quickly. 
Then he added more quietly. “In that case, I wonder 
why she hasn’t done so. How long ago did she tell 
you all this?” 

“Oh, not long ago. When I was last in Paris. She 
was' dancing there.” 

One day Octavius Milo, surrendering to a sudden im¬ 
pulse, attempted to take Mrs. Lethbridge’s hand in his 
own. She put his arm away gently, then, without a 
word, pointed to her wedding ring. 

“You have a husband?” he inquired in a low tone. 

“I had,” she murmured with emotion. “He is dead. 
But his memory remains with me always—and always 
will.” 

Her companion deemed it tactful not to press the 
question further then. He decided, however, that some 
day in the future he would refer to it again and find 
out how long she had been a widow. 

Thus their intimacy grew. When the end of his 
holiday drew near he felt that he would miss her greatly, 
so one afternoon while they were walking together in 
the lanes towards Pitt Corner, beyond the hospital, he 
made a suggestion to her which had occurred to him 
the week before. 

It was to the effect that when he returned to Exeter 
she should go and stay for a little while at Torquay. 
He described the beauty of the place, which he declared 
resembled Genoa, where she told him she had once spent 
a winter which she had thoroughly enjoyed. He added 
that during the summer she would find plenty going 
on there. 


100 


THREE KNOTS 


At first she hesitated. He had, however, little diffi¬ 
culty in persuading her to adopt his proposal. 

“I can assure you that you won’t regret going there,” 
he said, elated, “especially as you have never been in 
Torquay. I can recommend a good hotel. There is 
quite a quaint little theatre there, too, and excellent 
concerts and entertainments take place at the Bath 
Saloon and at the Pavilion.” 

And so it came about that they left Winchester to¬ 
gether for South Devon. 

But more than that happened. Milo had not intended, 
when he craftily proposed her going to Torquay, that 
she should remain there alone. During the first day or 
two of her visit he came from Exeter to see her and 
spent the afternoon with her. Then one night he missed 
the last train back to Exeter. This, as he said, put an 
idea into his head, really it had first entered it when 
they were at Winchester. He would take a room at 
the hotel in Torquay and “run up” to Exeter every day 
to attend to his practice. He “ran up” for two days. 
Then he completed the plan he had formed. He re¬ 
mained in Torquay, as he lightly put it to Mrs. Leth¬ 
bridge, he would “give the law a rest.” 

Mrs. Lethbridge came down to breakfast every morn¬ 
ing; they now always breakfasted together. Invariably 
she was the first down, and as she passed the letter-rack 
in the hall, she would, after taking her letters, take out 
his also, carelessly look through them, and then replace 
them in the rack. Indeed, at any time she saw letters 
awaiting him she would take them out and casually 
glance at their postmarks. 

One morning, whilst looking through his letters in 
this way, she came upon one which had been readdressed 
from Exeter. It bore an American stamp and the post- 


THE DANCER IN YELLOW 


101 


mark “Los Angeles, Cal.” Without an instant’s hesi¬ 
tation she put it in with her own letters, then slipped 
the lot into her bag. Not until the evening did Milo 
find that letter awaiting him in the rack. 

That night Mrs. Lethbridge posted two letters. One 
was addressed to Baxter’s Detective Agency, the other 
was directed to Gerald Grey. And both bore the 
signature of “Irene Baxter.” 


CHAPTER X 


a woman’s confession 

The office of the proprietor and managing-director 
of Baxter’s Detective Agency resembled a boudoir in 
Mayfair, rather than a business office in Oxford Street. 

Quite a large apartment, its paper was delicately 
tinted, its furniture was mostly antique, while upon 
the walls hung rare prints and mezzotints. At one end 
of the room was a full-length mirror, and there were 
other mirrors as well. The firegrate came from some 
old country manor house, and had brass dogs on each 
side. Upon several tables were flowers in profusion. 
Only the large writing-table was out of harmony. It 
stood in the middle of the room and upon it were two 
telephone transmitters, a metaphone, and a row of 
electric bell-buttons. 

Irene Baxter sat at the writing-table, apparently 
deep in thought. She had a trick, when thinking hard, 
of drumming upon the table with the fingers of her 
right hand. She was drumming now. Presently she 
stopped, unlocked and opened a drawer, and took out 
of it an unframed photograph. 

It was the portrait of a well-set-up, good-looking 
young man, with a keen, intelligent face and a high 
forehead. The lips were slightly parted, as though 
he were going to speak. The eyes looked straight into 
her own. 


102 


A WOMAN’S CONFESSION 


103 


For several minutes she sat staring at it. Suddenly 
something purred at her elbow. Quickly looking at 
the photograph again, she picked up the metaphone. 

“Show him in in a minute,” she said, in answer to 
an inquiry. 

For a moment she stood before the long mirror. By 
the time the door opened she was again seated at the 
table. 

Gerald Grey looked out of temper as he entered, and 
as he shook hands, the girl noticed a certain stiffness 
in his manner. She pushed forward a chair, and he 
seated himself. 

“You will have gathered from my letter,” he said, 
“that I am not—well, not entirely satisfied with your 
work, Miss Baxter. Here I am paying you large 
cheques, and what have you done? Practically 
nothing.” 

“Excuse me,” she answered quickly. “I have ‘done’ 
a great deal. You mean that I have ‘discovered’ prac¬ 
tically nothing.” 

“It amounts to the same thing.” 

“It would if it were so. I may have discovered ‘prac¬ 
tically’ nothing. Theoretically I have found out a 
good deal.” 

“Is ‘theoretical’ discovery of any use?” 

“Of great use. I always build on theory. Practi¬ 
cal proof of the correctness of my theories comes 
later. You must please have patience, Mr. Grey.” 

“You said that to me on a previous occasion, if I 
am not mistaken.” 

“And I may say it to you on a future occasion. I 
admit that this problem you have set me is one of 
the hardest I have ever had to solve. Consequently 
it may take time.” 


104 


THREE KNOTS 


“It certainly is doing that,” Grey put in with a 
rather sarcastic smile. “Is it likely to take much 
longer?” 

“It is.” 

She stopped abruptly. She felt her heart thump¬ 
ing. For an instant she dreaded that she was going 
to break down, betray her feelings. Meanwhile Grey, 
noticing nothing, went on: 

“To come to the point, Miss Baxter. I don’t want 
to appear ungrateful for what you have done or tried 
to do, I mean for all the trouble I am sure you have 
taken, but I fear—if I may speak bluntly—that the 
task you have set yourself is greater than you can 
cope with. Therefore, I am going to suggest, and I 
hope you will not take it amiss, that I should now pay 
you any further fees I may owe to your agency, 
and that you give up trying to solve this difficult 
problem.” 

“Which means that you will employ some other 
agency, or person.” 

“Well, as you put it so—yes.” 

He noticed now that she was trembling, also that 
she had turned very pale. At the same moment he 
recollected the intense pride she had herself once told 
him she took in her detective concern and in her own 
ability. He hated hurting anybody’s feelings, and now 
he regretted having spoken quite so plainly. Still 
what was the use of her going on trying to accomplish 
what she evidently could not achieve, and of his paying 
sums which he could ill afford? If only she .... 

“Mr. Grey.” 

As she spoke she caught her breath. 

“Yes?” he said in a more conciliatory tone. 

“I am going to ask you a favour.” 


A WOMAN’S CONFESSION 105 


“Yes?” 

Suddenly her expression completely changed. She 
rose and stood before him, her breast rising and falling, 
while her locked fingers fidgeted nervously. 

“Oh, Mr. Grey,” she exclaimed, and her tone was 
very piteous, “Oh, Mr. Grey, don’t you know—can’t 
you see . . . 

She stopped, unable to go on. 

“See what?” he asked in astonishment, unable with 
manlike obtuseness to recognise what any woman would 
have realised at once. 

“I can’t help it—I must say it—I must!” she ex¬ 
claimed desperately, and even he saw then how pathetic 
her expression was. 

Mr. Grey, pray do not think me immodest when I 
confess that I like you and what I have tried to do for 
you has given me pleasure. Perhaps I ought not to 
say it, but.” 

She sank into her chair again and hid her face in 
her hands. 

Grey got up and came to her. He put his hand upon 
her head, and she trembled as if electricity had thrilled 
her. 

Suddenly she sat up and, as she turned her eyes 
towards him, he realised that there was undeclared 
love in them. 

“Poor little girl,” he said after a pause. Her look, 
so utterly pathetic, touched him. “I am so sorry, \ 
really, really am, Irene.” 

He knew how bald his words must sound to her, yet 
he could think of nothing else. To his surprise, her 
eyes shone. 

“Ah, call me that always—do—do!” 

“What! ‘Irene’?” 



106 


THREE KNOTS 


“Yes, ‘Irene.’ I love to hear the name coming from 
your lips. It does me good to hear it.” 

“Of course, I will, Irene. And you won’t call me 
Mr. Grey any more, you understand?” 

Again he looked into her love-lit eyes. He was only 
human. The ardent gaze which imparted to her face 
an entirely new expression seemed to make her almost 
beautiful. Something stirred within him. Her hyp¬ 
notic will moved his spirit. Unconsciously he took 
a step forward .... 

His arms were about her and he gave her a kiss, 
which she returned passionately. 

When at last he released her, she looked covered with 
confusion. 

“You must think me awful,” she said at last. “But, 
Gerald, that is the first time I have ever kissed a man. 
And never before have I let any man kiss me. Will 
you forgive me—Gerald?” 

He smiled. 

“There is nothing to forgive that I can see,” he 
said. “I am only sorry that you have come to feel 
like that, seeing that I don’t love you in return. Still, 
we can be friends, can’t we?” 

“Friends,” she murmured dreamily. “Yes, great 
friends. That is all.” 

Gradually she grew more normal. 

“I have not asked that favour yet,” she said suddenly. 
“May I ask it now?” 

“Do, please.” 

“It is only this. I w r ant you to let me carry on 
this case, continue my investigations. And I want you 
not to employ anybody else at all. I believe that I 
shall solve the mystery in time. I am sure that I am 
coming to it slowly. And look-” 



A WOMAN’S CONFESSION 


107 


She opened a drawer and took out some papers. 
Amongst them were some cheques. The latter she put 
together and pushed across the table to him.” 

“These are yours,” she said calmly. “Not one of 
them has been presented and I don’t want them. From 
the first I decided that I would not take money from 
you. Somehow I felt I could not—from you. And I 
feel like that still. Take them and destroy them. That 
is the other favour I ask.” 

Grey’s first impulse was to object, to say that he 
could not let her work for nothing, and to utter other 
commonplace platitudes. But he checked himself. He 
had intuition enough to realise that this girl was no 
ordinary type of woman, that in many ways she was 
abnormal. Her intense cleverness he had recognised 
long ago. The scene she had just enacted revealed 
the temperament she possessed, and such a tempera¬ 
ment must, he was quick to recognise, be humoured. 

“Very well,” he said. “We will let it go at that. 
You shall go on as you are doing. I will send no more 
cheques. And I promise to leave the affair entirely 
in your hands.” 

She was about to speak when the wooden cup purred 
again. 

“Yes,” she said, speaking into the metaphone. “Who 
is it?” 

Grey saw her start. 

“Tell him that Mr. Baxter will be disengaged in ten 
minutes and ask him to wait, please. I will ring up 
when I am ready.” 

She stood up quickly. Once again she was the alert, 
intelligent, rather matter-of-fact woman she had, until 
to-day, always appeared to him to be. 

“Mr. Octavius Milo has called to see me profession- 


108 


THREE KNOTS 


ally,” she said, “or rather to see Mr. Baxter. I’m Mr. 
Baxter. Now, Gerald, you can help me materially. 
And you are going to hear all that he is going to 
say to me. Come through here.” 

She pressed a button which a framed mezzotint had 
concealed, and a door, until then invisible, revolved 
upon a vertical axis. 

“You don’t want me to eavesdrop, surely!” he ex¬ 
claimed, drawing back. 

“You must. It is of vital importance that you should 
hear. I know Mr. Milo intimately and-” 

“You know Milo!” 

“Yes, but he won’t recognise me in a moment. Come.” 



CHAPTER XI 


AMONG THE HEATHER 

It was Shadcombe tennis-week. On the great lawn 
everybody who was anybody in the town or in the 
neighbourhood had foregathered. Mrs. Willie Monck- 
ton, in a pale-mauve gown, which showed her figure 
to perfection, sat surrounded by some of her satellites. 
She looked very beautiful that day and felt pleased 
with everybody and with herself in particular. What 
woman is not pleased when she knows she is the centre 
of attraction, and that that attraction is created by 
her good looks and her pretty frock? She could afford 
to smile at the one or two uncharitable remarks about 
herself which she chanced to overhear. 

But there were many pretty women there that after¬ 
noon. There was a well-known concert artist to whom 
Bobbie Tolhurst seemed to be paying marked atten¬ 
tion, which was not to be wondered at, as she eventually 
became his bride. There were twin-sisters, both fair 
and exceptionally good-looking, who came annually 
to Shadcombe from somewhere near London, and gen¬ 
erally excited a good deal of admiration. There was 
also a pretty girl camouflaged to look like a lady, of 
whom nobody knew anything except that she was com¬ 
panion to an upholstered woman of unprepossessing 
appearance, but reputed “enormously wealthy” by the 
tradespeople. It was commonly supposed at that time 
109 


110 


THREE KNOTS 


that some of this woman’s fortune would one day accrue 
to her pretty girl companion, but when the former 
was “interred,” as the Shadcombe Gazette put it, the 
pretty girl found herself the recipient only of a silver 
teapot with tea-cosy complete, a pair of silver candle¬ 
sticks and a full-length portrait of her benefactress. 

She went away crying. 

The looks cast at Gerald Grey as he strolled on to 
the lawn about tea-time, with a slim, good-looking 
boy who wore glasses and had sleek, black hair, were 
none too cordial. Since his arrest, and scathing cross- 
examination, the town and district residents had rather 
cold-shouldered him. True, nothing at all had been 
proved against him, but still .... 

Well, the affair had created a good deal of talk, 
and talk of an unpleasant nature, and residents in a 
small town, who rarely quit that small town, dislike 
that sort of thing. 

A woman who spoke no ill of him, nor had ever done 
so, was Mrs. Willie Monckton. Indeed, she rarely spoke 
ill of any one. When she did, she usually had some 
good cause for doing so. 

“You are late, Mr. Grey,” she said smiling, as he 
approached. 

“I have been to the station to meet a friend,” he 
answered. “Let me introduce him. Frank, I want 
to present you to Mrs. Monckton. Mrs. Monckton, an 
old school friend of mine, Frank Rawlins.” 

Rawlins smiled. Mrs. Monckton looked at him with 
interest. He was almost girlish in appearance, she 
thought, but he had a nice face and good teeth. 

They all sat there talking, Mrs. Monckton’s satel¬ 
lites joining in the conversation. Presently a voice 
near by made them all look up. It was Milo. 


AMONG THE HEATHER 


111 


“We just pulled it off, and that is all,” he was 
saying to Bobbie Tolhurst. “My partner made several 
bad blunders. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Monckton,” as 
he caught her eye. “Afternoon everybody.” He 
avoided seeing Grey. “Hullo, whom have we here?” 

A woman much made up was coming along the path. 
She was somewhat overdressed; that anyone could see, 
even at that distance. But she carried herself well, 
and gracefully, and walked with a freedom uncommon 
amongst Englishwomen. Many lorgnons were raised 
in scrutiny as she approached. She was a stranger 
to every one, apparently, though clearly a personality 
of some sort. As a personality she aroused interest. 
As a stranger she stimulated hostility. 

“Deuced fine woman,” was the first audible comment 
made about her. It was the retired Colonel who spoke. 
He fancied himself a judge of female beauty, and 
was certainly no mean critic. 

“Just look how those cats are glaring at her,” he 
went on in an undertone. “Jealous of her, every one; 
jealous as a lot of schoolgirls.” 

Just then Frank Rawlins turned. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, his face brightening. “My half- 
sister. Come, Gerald, I’ll make you known to each 
other. Yvonne has heard me talk of you.” 

He had spoken distinctly, in a rather high, boyish 
voice, so that many seated on the lawn had heard 
him. Some of these people smiled condescendingly. 

“What a half-sister!” one of them said to her friend 
seated near. Then they both laughed. 

Soon Yvonne had joined the group which centred 
round Mrs. Monckton. It was clear that the new¬ 
comer was “not exactly a lady,” as the more chari- 
table-tongued put it afterwards, but none the less she 


112 


THREE KNOTS 


was good company and seemed exceedingly good- 
natured. She spoke English perfectly. 

Nobody noticed Milo’s sudden absence. Nor had 
anybody noticed the pallor that had overspread his 
features as soon as Yvonne had come within recognising 
distance. 

A week later Mrs. Monckton gave a picnic. Her 
picnics were always, in the current slang, “awfully well 
done.” Also, she so selected her guests that all who 
met were, so far as possible, of the same way of think¬ 
ing. Thus she would not invite ultrastrait-laced resi¬ 
dents—and in Shadcombe and Dawlish and other towns 
in that part there are a few—to meet boys and girls 
more abreast of the times. People of advanced views 
met at these picnics other people of advanced views. 
People with Victorian minds met others with Victorian 
minds. And thus it came about that Mrs. Willie’s 
picnics, in common with her lunch-parties and her 
tea-parties, were invariably successful and extremely 
popular. 

Castle Dyke is a square-built tower upon the fringe 
of Haldon Moor, about two miles out of Dawlish, on 
the crest of a hill. Upon the south and west of it 
extend the woods of Luscombe, upon the east those of 
Ashcombe, where a baronet lives or lived at that time. 
And from it, by narrow lanes and by-paths, Holcombe 
may be reached. 

They were a merry party that day, and the weather 
was gloriously hot. Besides the hostess and her girl 
friends, there were Mrs. Ashcombe and Polly, Yvonne, 
Bobbie Tolhurst and Gerald Grey, Grey’s old school 
chum, Frank Rawlins, and others who need not be 
named. 

After lunch the party gradually dispersed, some in 


AMONG THE HEATHER 


113 


little groups, some in twos and threes, wandering in 
different directions, though most wended their way 
into the beautiful, undulating, thickly-wooded covers 
lying east and south. 

A group of three, consisting of Grey, Yvonne and 
her half-brother, when no longer within sight or sound 
of any of the others, stopped abruptly and looked 
about them. Then they wandered on through the 
woods in silence, aimlessly as it seemed. 

“How fortunate,” Grey said presently, “that Mrs. 
Willie should have chosen Castle Dyke for this picnic. 
It gives us just the opportunity we wanted, doesn’t 
it, Irene?” 

Frank Rawlins looked up. His face was very grave. 

“Yes; in the sense that we are not likely to be 
warned off. But a thought has just occurred to me. 
If any of the others come upon us w r hile we are 
doing this, they will be sure to talk. However-” 

He turned to Yvonne. 

“I will take the letter now, if you please,” he said. 

“Frank Rawlins,” or Irene Baxter as she may as 
well be called now, took it from her and unfolded it 
carefully. It was a dirty, frayed letter, and bits of 
it were missing. The writing of some of the remainder 
was obliterated. 

They were now near a declivity in the ground from 
which flints had long ago been quarried. The decliv¬ 
ity, or “pocket” as it is called in Devonshire, was 
overgrown with heather, also with tall ferns. 

“This should be about the spot,” the girl said, look¬ 
ing up from the letter. Stopping abruptly, she looked 
about her. “The letter says ‘three tall pine-trees and 
a small one grouped together and’—the next words 
are worn out .... ‘a milestone in the road can be 



114 ? 


THREE KNOTS 


seen . . . .’ Yes, there is the milestone over there 
. . . . ‘cleft in the ground, nearly hidden by heather 
. . . / this declivity must be the ‘cleft’ referred to and 
—yes, these are evidently the three tall trees and a 
small one grouped together. Why, what’s that?” 

She was pointing in the direction of the heather- 
covered hill they had just clambered down. Suddenly 
she turned to Yvonne. 

“What was the exact date you left San Francisco?” 
she asked quickly. 

The woman told her. 

“And you appeared at the Midway Plaisaunce every 
night before that?” 

“During the whole fortnight before I left.” 

“Then what day did you post your letter to Octavius 
Milo, the one in which you referred to this place and 
that was forwarded to him at Torquay?” 

“I am sure I can’t remember,” Yvonne answered 
thoughtfully. “It certainly was after Wal Marner 
had gone from San Francisco.” 

“Good. Now come along.” 

They followed her along a narrow, ascending sheep 
track, through the thick purple heather and golden 
gorse, towards the foot of the hillside. Up this hill, 
still following the track, which now zig-zagged, they 
made their way. 

Presently Irene stopped and pointed. 

Forty or so 3 ^ards to the left a small dark opening, 
almost concealed by the dense undergrowth, was visible. 

“I am sure that must be it,” she said. 

They had to scramble carefully along the face of 
the hill to get to the opening, but they reached it 
at last. Irene pushed the undergrowth aside. 

Though the entrance was low and narrow, the cave 


AMONG THE HEATHER 


115 


inside was quite large and deep. Grey struck a match, 
and they looked about them, interested. Suddenly 
he stooped. 

“This is fortunate,” he said. As he spoke he picked 
up from the ground two tallow candles. One of them 
was partly burned. He was about to light it, when 
Irene Baxter stopped him. 

“Not that one,” she said. “The other. Give me 
that one.” 

Now they saw that the cave had been occupied 
by someone, though not quite recently. The damp 
ground had boot-marks in several places, marks of 
hob-nailed boots. Irene told them to be careful not 
to tread upon or obliterate these marks. In one corner, 
almost hidden, was an empty rum-jar. There was also 
a dirty jersey. It was frayed and had holes in it 
and one arm had been torn off. Beside it lay some 
twine, a hank of tarred twine tied round with a knot 
which was peculiar. The only other articles were a 
broken china mug, a metal spoon, an empty biscuit 
box, a broken pair of braces, and a pair of worn-out 
seamen’s boots. A fire had at one time been lit round 
a corner in the cave, where no light would be visible 
from without, even at night. The charred wood and 
blackened embers remained. 

“Nothing much here,” Grey observed. “The bird 
has flown some time ago.” 

Carefully Irene Baxter examined everything. The 
boot-soles did not fit the boot-marks on the ground. 
The sides and roof of the cave had not been hewn 
or cut, or touched in any way, but on one side were 
hewn little clefts, or shelves. There was a small aper¬ 
ture in the roof through which the light of day 
percolated. 


116 


THREE KNOTS 


Following her instructions, they left everything as 
they had found it. Also they took care to efface their 
own boot-prints before leaving the cave. 

When they reached the entrance again, Irene made 
some notes in shorthand in her pocket-book. Only one 
thing she had taken, the partly-burned candle. 

They were clambering along the face of the hill 
again, when they heard voices calling. Some of the 
picnic party were looking for them. 

Irene Baxter, in her boy’s clothes, looked exceedingly 
attractive. This was the thought that struck Grey 
as he watched her walking arm-in-arm with her pre¬ 
tended half-sister, Yvonne, who, of course, was none 
other than the dancer whom Wal Marner had sent for 
after her performance in San Francisco. 

When they rejoined the remainder of the party, 
Bobbie Tolhurst was describing some wonderful run 
of the year before, when the South Devon hounds had 
met at Castle Dyke. It had been a twelve-mile point, he 
said, “as fast as they could split.” They had found 
in Luton Bottom, about a mile away, and run through 
Ugbrooke Park, Lord Clifford of Chudleigh’s seat, then 
on to Stoer Park, and had finally lost their fox some¬ 
where in the direction of Denbury, beyond Newton 
Abbot. 

“Don’t you ever hunt?” he ended, addressing Polly 
Ashcombe. “You ought to, you are such a light¬ 
weight.” 

“I used to regularly,” she answered, without 
thinking. 

“Oh? In what country?” 

“In Yorkshire with the York and Ainsty and the 
Bedale, and the-” 

“Polly, don’t sit on the grass, dear, I am sure it is 



AMONG THE HEATHER 117 

damp,” her mother interrupted. “Come and sit by 
me, on this rug.” 

Instantaneous though it had been, Irene Baxter had 
noticed the look of alarm and warning that had flashed 
into Mrs. Ashcombe’s eyes as he spoke. That settled 
it then. Mrs. Ashcombe did not wish anyone to know 
where her daughter had lived during those past years. 

Irene felt rather pleased with her day’s work, as 
they motored back to Shadcombe in Mrs. Willie’s two 
cars. She had picked up several scraps of informa¬ 
tion which seemed likely to be of use to her, and now 
Bobbie Tolhurst had unwittingly led Polly on to speak 
indiscreetly. 

Her thoughts, stimulated perhaps by the keen moor¬ 
land air as the car sped over Haldon and along the 
Exeter Road, worked rapidly. She was piecing to¬ 
gether this and that fragment, and they all seemed 
to fit. 

Those boot-prints in the cave corresponded, she felt 
sure, with a boot-print or two which she had come 
across accidentally in a remote part of the shrubbery 
at Gareth Cottage; she recollected distinctly the rather 
curious imprints made by the angles of the rows of 
nails. Ella Ashcombe had been strangled with a bit 
of twine, which the newspapers had spoken of as “tarred 
twine.” The hank of cord in the cave had been tarred 
cord or twine. A bit of tallow candle had been found 
in the bundle discovered near Hole Head. That bun¬ 
dle, too, had been tied up with tarred twine, and she 
herself had found a bit of tallow candle amongst some 
scraps and rubbish at Gareth Cottage, and now, to-day, 
two tallow candles had been among the odds and ends 
in the cave they had just discovered. These things 
might be coincidences, but she did not believe they 


118 


THREE KNOTS 


were. Then Milo had said things during his interview 
with her in Oxford Street, when she had been disguised 
as a man with grey hair and a beard, which Grey had 
overheard, and had found coincided with certain inci¬ 
dents he knew to have occurred, which indirectly had 
bearing on the murder. Her meeting with Yvonne, 
the famous dancer, had been most fortunate too. It 
had come about through her opening that letter while 
she was with Milo at Torquay—oh, how she had de¬ 
tested those hours spent alone with him, she reflected, 
and his persistent attempts to make love to her against 
her will. And the things, the spiteful statements and 
blatant falsehoods hel had said to her about Grey! And 
why? Merely because she had once happened to re¬ 
mark that she had liked Grey on the occasion she had 
met him at Mrs. Monckton’s. 

Liked him! Her train of thought shot out into a 
fresh channel. She felt sure that gradually, though 
slowly, Gerald was coming to like her in the way she 
so longed he should. Little things he had said to 
her during the past week, the way he had looked at 
her when he thought she did not see, the expression in 
his eyes, sometimes, when he had talked to her, all 
pointed in the direction she so desired. 

Then she wondered why this should be. Had she 
changed? Had she grown better looking? Did she 
dress—why yes, perhaps, that had something to do 
with, it, her boy’s clothes. She had put on boy’s clothes 
merely as a disguise, one of her many professional 
disguises, just as she sometimes dressed as an old 
woman, or as a flower-seller, as a fortune-teller, or as 
an old or a middle-aged man. Could it be that the 
costume she now wore attracted him, in some way 
piqued his fancy? 


AMONG THE HEATHER 


119 


“You are smiling, Mr. Rawlins,” Vera Trevor sud¬ 
denly exclaimed. She was seated facing her. “A 
penny for your thoughts.” 

“I know I was,” Irene answered, instantly on her 
guard. “I was thinking what you said about the 
camouflaged girl. What a dreadful shame it was 
though, to cut her off like that.” 

They all laughed. 

“And she cried so at the funeral,” the one sharp- 
tongued member of the picnic party said with a twisted 
mouth. “But then, of course, she had not heard the 
will read.” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE BIG SPLASH 

“Us won’t go home ’till raor-ning; us won’t go home 
’till raor-ning; us won’t go home ’till mor-or- 
ning . . . 

“A gude song, sonny, and well sung. Sing ’ut again 
—will ’ee?” 

A certain hostelry in Holcombe was, as was usual 
on Saturday nights, well patronised. In the “private” 
bar, so-called probably on the lucus a non lucendo 
principle, twelve or fifteen regular customers, mostly 
agricultural labourers, were assembled. The place 
reeked of alcohol, and the atmosphere was so thick 
with foul-smelling tobacco smoke, that to see right 
across the room, which was not a large one, was diffi¬ 
cult. The impression a sober stranger peering in at 
the door would have carried away with him would 
have been a vision of fat, round, shiny red faces with 
eyes rendered bovine and watery through smoke and 
beer, looming out of a haze composed of a Scotch mist 
and London fog. It was not a nice place to be in, 
at least from the standpoint of any but its habitues. 

As the singer, a yokel of three- or four-and-twenty, 
with unkempt hair and sun-tanned skin, sat down un¬ 
steadily on the bench from which he had risen to relieve 
himself of his feelings in fuddled song, he knocked over 
with his elbow a pewter pot, and its contents deluged 
the sawdust floor in a splashing cataract. 

120 


THE BIG SPLASH 


121 


<e Yew fule, yew, yew durned gert zany!” a rough, 
bearded man in a jerkin, corduroy trousers and heavy 
boots, shouted furiously, banging his fist upon the 
table. “Yew did zame t’other night! Yew’m mazed, 
ah reckon, that’s what yew be!” 

Though obviously a native, there was something 
about him which betokened him a sailor, or at least 
one who had been at sea. He was, indeed, the individ¬ 
ual who on the day of the inquest on the murdered 
girl had stood muttering to himself whilst the coroner 
and his associates had filed out of the house. 

The young labourer laughed loudly. 

“An’ did’n’ I stan’ ’ee ’nother t’other night, ole fel¬ 
ler?” he exclaimed joyously. “Cors’ I did, an’ I’ll stan’ 
’ee ’nother now, sure ’nuff—hi, muther! ’Nother quart 
o’ fore ’arf ver Mister What-’s-name, will ’ee?” 

Mollified, the man in corduroys held out a horny 
palm. 

“That be well spoke, sonny,” he said as he gripped 
the younger man’s hand. “That’s way tu du ut. 
That’s way t’make friends, sonny. Yew’m one o’ the’ 
rit’ sort, yew be. I was like ’ee when I were yew’r age. 
An’ now yew’ll join me in this ’ere, awe yes yew will,” 
and he too ordered another pot. 

It was growing late, but none of the revellers was 
as yet too intoxicated to be incoherent. When the 
gentleman in corduroys had gulped heavily from his 
foaming tankard and wiped his lip with the back of 
his sleeve, he grew even more talkative, and better dis¬ 
posed than ever towards the young yokel. 

“Ah seed widder an ’er darter this forenune,” the 
latter remarked presently. “Er be a purty gurl, ’er 
be, no mistake.” 

His companion seemed suddenly roused. 


122 THREE KNOTS 

“Awe, that er widder,” he said aloud, but to him¬ 
self. “Awe.” 

“Er’ve recovered summat, pore sawl,” the other said, 
blinking. 

“Ah knaws what Ah knaws, and Ah sees what Ah 
sees,” his companion remarked sententiously, still 
speaking apparently to himself. 

“Yew’m said that afore, ole feller, many times afore,” 
one of the other yokels exclaimed, grinning. 

“An A’ll say un many times again,” the old man 
answered snappishly. 

Conversation flagged for some minutes. All were too 
busy with their pint or quart pots to talk much. Those 
who did talk rambled on inconsequently, speaking, it 
might have been noticed, each about himself only. 

For some moments the old man had been staring 
at the wet floor. 

“Wonnerful what a big splash a small pot like that 
du make,” he said presently. “Like a lake out o’ 
taycup ut’t be.” 

They all stared down at it. Certainly it seemed 
strange, as the sea-faring man had said, that a quart 
of beer upset upon the floor could cover so wide an 
area. It still ran in thin rivulets along the uneven 
boards, in spite of the layer of saw-dust. 

About half an hour later the yokel said again that 
he had seen the widow and her daughter, but nobody 
seemed to recollect that he had said so before. This 
time he added, as an afterthought: 

“Moast strange thing, that *er tradg-tradg’dy down 
long. Moast strange thing.” 

Again the man in corduroys seemed to wake up. 
But now he sat silent. 

The subject led to talk of other crimes, of murder 


THE BIG SPLASH 


123 


in particular. This crime and that was mentioned with 
allusions, a course, to the Crippen case. There had 
been a murder on Great Haldon once, near the old 
race-stand, but none present could remember it. Their 
fathers, however, could recollect it quite well, they told 
each other. The body had, it seemed, been discovered 
in some cave. 

“Cave?” 

The word had been muttered by the old man in cor¬ 
duroys. But that was all he said. He was very drunk 
now, and would soon be asleep. 

And then, as was inevitable, the whole affair of the 
Holcombe Tragedy was talked out again. The talk¬ 
ers grew more and more loquacious, then argumentative. 
Names were mentioned freely. This view and that 
opinion was advanced as to who the actual murderer 
could be. Evidence given, and alleged to have been 
given, at the inquest, and printed in the Press, was 
quoted. 

“An’ that ’ere bundle found, an’ letters in ’un,” one 
of the least intoxicated of the talkers suddenly ex¬ 
claimed. “What become of ’ee? ’Us bain’t ’eard no 
more of ’ee. Ah doan’t believe ther’ wer’ no bundle. 
’Twas all them papers’ Trash.’ ” 

“Awe, don’t yew believe no such stuff an’ nonsense,” 
one of the others interrupted. “Ah knaw all ’bout 
’er. Ah knaws where ’er be tu.” 

The yokel who had upset the tankard was also fast 
asleep. He awoke slowly with a grunt, stretched him¬ 
self, gave one prodigious yawn, then rose to his feet 
laboriously and looked stupidly about him. He lurched 
towards the group. 

The talkers had lowered their voices. Now all were 
grouped in a listening attitude about the man who 


124 


THREE KNOTS 


had alleged that he knew what had become of that 
mysterious and much-talked-of bundle. 

For some moments he continued speaking in a low 
tone: When at last he stopped, all who had been 
listening turned of one accord and stared as steadily 
as their befuddled wits would allow them to do at 
the deep-breathing form of the old man lying back 
on a chair with mouth agape and chin sunk upon his 
chest. 

“Well, ah never!” one of them presently remarked. 

“Us didn’ never suspect y ee knawed much about 
’un,” observed another. 

“Time, please, gentlemen!” came the strident voice 
of the portly female behind the bar. She had her 
sleeves rolled up beyond the elbow, and this, coupled 
with her flat nose and square jaw, gave her the appear¬ 
ance of a pugilist. 

“Time, please!” she cried in a louder voice a minute 
later. 

Slowly her patrons began to move unsteadily towards 
the door. 

A clatter of lock and bolts followed. 

Footsteps were coming up the narrow, steep lane, 
which leads by a short cut from Holcombe to Shad- 
combe. They were unsteady footsteps, as though 
whoever it might be had lost confidence in himself. 
As they approached the crest of the hill, the way¬ 
farer broke into snatches of a song, in an alcoholic 
voice: 

“Us won’t go home till raor-ning. ... go home till 
mor-ning . . . till mor-or -ning . . . daylight (hie) 
. . . . appear . . . 

He stopped, and there came a low whistle from 
further along the lane. The wayfarer whistled in re- 


THE BIG SPLASH 125 

ply, and waited. Someone came towards him at a brisk 
walk. Some moments later they met. 

“Have you been waiting long?” the “reveller” asked 
in a sober and quite different voice. 

“Not above ten minutes. How marvellous you are, 
Irene! Your impersonations are amazing.” 

“They have to be. Oh, what a night! And how hor¬ 
rible men are! Can you be surprised after what I have 
seen of men since I adopted this profession that I 
always thought it impossible I could ever admire any 
man—until I met you?” 

“Was it very terrible?” 

“Worse than last Saturday, much worse. But my 
trick came off all right. I again upset a pot of beer 
on to the floor, and managed to empty my own mug 
on to it every time it was filled, without being seen. 
They were all too fuddled. They did wonder once 
how a single pot of ale could make so big a splash; 
but I suppose the idea of anyone deliberately wasting 
the precious liquid would have seemed to them so in¬ 
credible as to be impossible. How lovely it is to be 
in the fresh air again! Oh, I think men as a race 
are detestable, all ranks and all classes. I will tell 
you one day some of the things I have seen. I couldn’t 
repeat to you many things I have heard, such coarse, 
horrible talk!” 

He saw she was overwrought, and he took her gently 
by the arm. Thus they walked for some way in silence. 

It was a sultry night, without a breath of wind. 
The moon shed a streak of molten gold far out to 
sea, and into the streak, as they stood at a gate, 
gazing out across the water, a tiny barque at that 
moment floated. A night bird screeched. In the long 
meadow grass, grasshoppers chirped unceasingly. The 


126 


THREE KNOTS 


only discordant sound was the voices of the yokels 
quarrelling in broad Devonshire as they made their 
way homewards. Presently that sound grew more and 
more distant. Soon it was inaudible, and the very 
trees and bushes seemed to sleep. 

They stood there without speaking. Somehow the 
beauty of the night seemed to cast a spell upon them. 
At last Grey turned, and looked hard at his com¬ 
panion, whose artificially sun-tanned face showed oddly 
in the moonlight beneath her tousled hair. 

“Irene, do for goodness’ sake take that awful wig 
off,” Grey exclaimed suddenly. “You can’t think what 
you look like.” 

She smiled. Then she removed her yokel’s cap, and 
after it the wig. Her hair, wound closely about her 
head in heavy coils, was not becoming. 

“I wonder,” she said after some moments’ pause, 
“if you would mind my loosing my hair. It is so 
uncomfortable like this, but with a wig I have to wear 
it so.” 

“Why, certainly,” he answered. “Why not let it 
right down?” 

With deft fingers she loosened it, then unwound the 
thick coils. 

“Shall I unplait them for you?” he said all at once, 
and, without waiting for a reply, set to work. 

She stood facing the sea with its golden streak, her 
folded arms now resting upon the gate. The little 
boat was still in sight. Behind her, Grey unravelled, 
slowly, the long ropes of hair. To his touch it felt 
like silk. He lingered, smoothing out the soft tresses. 
Now his task was almost done .... 

Something impelled him to bend forward. He lifted 
the great mass that he had loosened, and pressed it 


THE BIG SPLASH 


127 


to his lips. He heard Irene catch her breath. And 
then, all at once, placing his arms about her from 
behind, he drew her to him and, burying his face in 
the wonderful hair, kissed her many times. 

Presently she half-turned. Now the moon’s rays 
shone down upon her hair, which reached almost to 
her waist. Never had he beheld hair so wonderful, so 
beautiful. It looked like burnished bronze, shot with 
gold and auburn. The sight and touch of it stimulated, 
intoxicated him. Suddenly he took her in his arms 
and covered her face with kisses. 

A cloud, drifting sluggishly across the sky, obscured 
the moon slowly. When it shone out again, Gerald 
Grey and Irene Baxter still stood locked in each other’s 
arms. 

A nearby sound, startled them. Irene sprang away 
and Grey turned quickly. 

Outlined in the moonlight a man stood facing them. 
They could not see his features. Presently he spoke, 
and they recognised his voice. 

“A charming moonlight idyll,” he said in a sneering 
tone. 

It was Octavius Milo. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE STRANGER IN IRELAND 

“So,” Milo went on in the same tone, “your old 
school chum turns out to be a girl dressed as a boy. 
I never had a high opinion of you, Grey, but upon 
my word, this beats cock-fighting!” 

He had a cigarette between his lips, and now lit it. 
Then he looked hard at Irene Baxter, whose face was 
in the shadow. 

“I can’t see your friend distinctly,” he said, “but I 
recognised her voice at once. I suppose you know, 
Grey, or maybe you don’t, that the woman you are 
with is a doubtful character. Not long ago, she told 
me a rigmarole about her dead husband, and said her 
name was Lethbridge—Mrs. Cyril Lethbridge. Good 
heavens, what vipers women are!” 

With a supreme effort Grey controlled himself. Then 
he answered with assumed calmness: 

“You don’t know what you are talking about Milo. 
Unfortunately there are reasons why I cannot en¬ 
lighten you.” 

“Oh, don’t talk such stuff, Grey!” Milo exclaimed, 
losing his temper. “What is the good of trying to 
bluff me? What I have told you is what happened; 
but I suppose you are so infatuated that you can’t bear 
to hear it. What beats me is why your precious com¬ 
panion should wear boy’s clothes. I suppose she knows 
that, in doing so she runs a considerable risk?” 

128 


THE STRANGER IN IRELAND 


129 


He stopped and stared again at the figure in the 
shadow. Grey, glancing at her, saw that Irene looked 
disconcerted, almost frightened. It was the first time 
he had seen fear in her eyes. All the while, however, 
her brain was working rapidly. 

Suddenly Milo continued: 

“For a long time past, Grey,” he said, “I have had 
one up against you. And I have one up against this 
woman, because I imagined her to be on the Continent. 
She told me, when I met her at Torquay, that she was 
going to France to visit friends. That was weeks ago. 
She disappeared out of my sight, and I wondered what 
had become of her. I had begun to think some mishap 
must have befallen her, and I was foolish enough to 
worry about it. Now let me tell you,” his voice grew 
threatening, “that I am going to get even with both 
of you at once. I have only to tell Mrs. Jacob 
Mulhall about this escapade of yours and it will be 
all over the town, and half the county in a day or 
two. I need hardly remind you,” he ended, “that a 
scandal of this description is not likely to increase 
your popularity, especially after what has already 
happened.” 

“I think you won’t say a word to Mrs. Mulhall, or 
to anybody else.” 

It was Irene who spoke now. She was quite self- 
possessed. She had come out of the shadow and the 
moonlight revealed her face. 

Milo looked astonished at the interruption. 

“By this time to-morrow,” he said sharply to her, 
“you will know you were mistaken.” 

“I think not. Will you let me speak?” 

“Oh, say anything you like,” he answered with a 
shrug. 


130 


THREE KNOTS 


“You have just spoken about a ‘scandal/” she re¬ 
marked. “You are a lawyer, too, so that a scandal 
would equally affect your ‘popularity,’ in other words, 
injure you professionally. Now, supposing it became 
known, Mr. Milo, that you secretly visited America, 
and then it became known beyond dispute that you 
had cunningly swindled a client in your professional 
capacity, and that you went even so far as to-” 

With an oath Milo had sprang forward and was 
trying to put his hand over his accuser’s mouth. In 
the moonlight his cheeks and lips were ashen, his eyes 
fiery. 

“Who, I ask you, has told you all that?” he cried. 
“It is all lies, every word. You cannot prove 
anything.” 

“Don’t you think Miss Yvonne could? And what 
about Mr. Wal Marner? He is in England now.” 

He stood like an animal at bay. 

“Who are you?” he suddenly gasped. “Have you 
been spying on me, or what? How is it you know so 
much about me?” 

“That is my affair,” she looked at Grey, “our affair. 
Now, Mr. Milo, as we have placed each other in check, 
I propose a compromise. If you remain silent, really 
and absolutely silent, I promise to divulge nothing I 
know about you. Is it a bargain?” 

For a minute he did not speak. Restlessly he walked 
a few yards away into the darkness, wrestling with his 
thoughts. Presently he came back. 

“Well?” Irene asked. “Have you decided?” 

“Let it be a compromise,” he said sullenly. “I have 
no option—at present . . . .” 

“That is reasonable of you. Then we will say good 
night, Mr. Milo. Just one question before you go. Did 



THE STRANGER IN IRELAND 


131 


you follow us up into these lanes, or did you come upon 
us by accident? Do you mind saying?” 

“By accident,” he answered in a much quieter tone. 
“I am staying near Cross Park for a day or two, and 
it was such a fine night I thought I would take a stroll 
before going to bed.” 

His anger seemed to have evaporated. In reality 
he was finessing. 

It was nearly two in the morning before Grey and 
Irene Baxter reached Shadcombe. The moon had sunk 
into a cloud-bank, and the night had turned dark. 
Rain seemed suddenly to threaten. The darkness came 
opportunely, for, though the girl had swept her hair 
under her jacket and so concealed it, yet, without 
her wig, she might have been recognised had any ac¬ 
quaintance passed her by in the light of a street-lamp. 
Milo did not sleep that night. At dawn he still lay 
wide awake, striving to evolve some plan by which he 
might avenge himself. But none, out of the many which 
suggested themselves, seemed feasible. For a long time, 
too, he wondered how the girl had become possessed 
of this secret knowledge about himself. Who was she? 
Who could she be? And when and where had Grey 
first met her? And how intimate were she and Grey? 
Last, but not least, what induced her to disguise herself 
as a boy? The whole thing puzzled him exceedingly. 
That there must be some mystery at the bottom of it 
all, he felt sure. But what could the mystery be? 
And what part did Grey, indeed did he himself, play 
in it? 


The whole of North Wall from Alexandra Basin to 
the L. and N. W. Railway terminus, and from the 
North-Eastern Railway, past Liberty Hall to O’Con- 


132 


THREE KNOTS 


nell’s Bridge and Sackville Street, in Dublin, was alive 
with traffic. No notice was taken of the surroundings 
by a thick-set, middle-aged man of striking appearance, 
who, just arrived from England by the steam packet, 
stood watching his hand-baggage being stacked on to a 
jaunting-car. 

As the car rattled noisily over the cobble-stones in 
the wake of other cars and cabs, strange memories filled 
the mind of the new arrival. Just thirty years had 
passed since he had last been in those streets. Yet 
it seemed to him as though he had been there only yes¬ 
terday. He had been an urchin in those days, selling 
newspapers and matches, barefooted, clothed in rags, 
begging, stealing, snatching a livelihood as best he 
could. 

And now he was a rich man! A little later he tossed 
a shilling to a street arab, whom an overbearing com¬ 
missionaire had cursed for “distressing the gintleman,” 
then entered an hotel, registered his name and inquired 
for letters. 

There were several awaiting him, and he took them. 

The smoking-room was crowded, so he went up to 
his bedroom. There, when his luggage had come up, 
he locked the door. Not until then did he proceed to 
tear open the letters, two of which were registered. 

His smile was sardonic as he refolded them all and 
placed them in his breast-pocket. 

“Say,” he exclaimed aloud in a tone of self-satisfac¬ 
tion, “there are no flies on Wal Marner—yet.” 

He visited the Bank of Ireland next morning, opened 
an account there, then caught the three o’clock train 
from Kingsbridge to Portarlington. 

More memories crowded in upon him as he sat star¬ 
ing out of the windows of his first-class compartment 


THE STRANGER IN IRELAND 133 

at the broad stretches of rich pasture rushing past on 
either side. 

How different from that journey from PortarRng- 
ton to Dublin more than thirty years ago. He had 
not noticed the landscape then. He had not been able 
to. He had travelled part-way hidden in a cattle-truck, 
part-way in an empty guard’s-van, while the last four¬ 
teen miles he had covered on foot, sleeping one night 
in an empty fowl-house where an irate gamekeeper’s son 
had caught and soundly thrashed him. 

The station at Portarlington, when he alighted from 
his slip coach, he did not recognise. The primitive 
structure he remembered had been swept away. In its 
place stood a station with stone-flagged platform, a 
footbridge and other up-to-date improvements. 

After driving eight miles, he told the jarvey to puM 
up. 

“Stop here till I come back,” he said. He had been 
conversing with the man all the way along, and had 
asked him many questions. 

“And is it here your honour will be after wanting 
me to wait for him?” the jarvey asked as he stepped 
down. 

“Right here, Pat! Get a drink meanwhile,” and he 
pushed a coin into his hand. 

The man “hoped the good God would bless him,” 
then clambered back to his seat. 

A mile further on, Mamer came to a stile, and stood 
gazing beyond it. Presently his heart sank. 

His old home, the home where his life had been so 
miserable that he had finally run away from it, had 
vanished. On its site stood a cottage of brick instead 
of cobb, with slates in place of thatch. It looked neat 
and clean and new. The dirty little garden where he 


134 


THREE KNOTS 


had so often played—and suffered—was a trim, well- 
kept plot with vegetables growing in it. The pump 
was there still, but a newly-painted pump, and the 
old cask which had done duty as a dog kennel .... 

He walked down the cindered footpath to the little 
garden gate, opened it and went up to the house. 
Rather a sour-looking English peasant woman opened 
the door. 

“Does anybody named ‘Marner’ live here now?” he 
inquired. 

“No, certainly not,” the woman snapped. “I live 
here, and my husband.” 

“There used to be people named ‘Marner’ living 
here.” 

“It must have been long ago then. I and my hus¬ 
band have been here nine years, and the folk here 
before were not called by that name.” 

“This is still the Rath estate?” 

The woman laughed. 

“Indeed it is nothing of the kind,” she exclaimed, 
“This is our own place. We bought it.” 

“Oh!” 

Marner paused. So this was his home-coming! 
Though his childhood had been so wretched here, he 
had looked forward, somehow, to returning one day 
to his old home. A few happy memories of his child¬ 
hood he could recall, but very few. 

He had lived a hard life afterwards, and made his 
way unhelped, had endured many a hard knock, and 
many a bitter disappointment. But in all his life— 
the life of a roving adventurer in the United States— 
no blow had hit him as hard as the death, in his child¬ 
hood, of the nondescript dog, Jock. 

“Is there anything you want?” 


THE STRANGER IN IRELAND 


135 


The acid voice brought him back to earth. 

“No. Sorry. Say, yes, there is. I’m an Amurri- 
can, ma’am. I’m moving around here, picking up 
souvenirs and bits of curios and so on, and I’d like to 
have that old gate of yours, I suppose it’s yours I 
came through, the one with the moss on it. You’ll 
sell it to me, I guess.” 

The woman looked him up and down. 

“My husband might—at a price. It’s a good gate.” 

“A good gate,” he laughed. “Sure. I’ll give you 
five dollars for it, and a new gate. Five dollars is 
one pound.” 

“I know that. I shall have to ask my husband.” 

“Say, I can’t hang around till your husband comes 
along. So you won’t sell. I’m sorry,” and he made 
a move to go. 

“Wait—stop a minute,” she called out. 

“I can’t; good-afternoon.” 

“Oh, well,” she went on quickly, “I suppose I may 
let you have the gate. You will pay me now?” 

He produced the money and asked for a receipt. 
She grudgingly gave him one. 

“When shall I get the new gate?” she asked. 

“When I come to take the old one. That will be 
right away—to-morrow or next day. Good-afternoon.” 

She watched him stride away up the little path. 

“And just as George was ordering a new gate,” she 
murmured. “I’ll keep this for myself,” she glanced 
down at the money, “and say, that man is giving us 
a new gate in exchange for the old one. I wish only 
he’d not been in such a hurry. He would have paid 
more for it, I’m sure.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE FLAME 

Horace wrote: “Make money, honestly if you can—- 
but make it.” 

Wal Marner had never heard of Horace, but he had 
made money all his life, honestly when he could, because 
then he ran less risk of getting into trouble, dishonestly 
when he could not, because it was in him to go on mak¬ 
ing money, and he had no dislike of taking risks when 
the prize to be gained seemed worth while. 

Since the days when he had sold newspapers in the 
streets of Dublin, and occasionally filched a purse and 
sometimes “won” a meal and not infrequently begged, 
generally successfully, of benevolent women and old 
gentlemen, he had “earned” money in a multitude of 
ways. He had run a gambling-saloon in Sacramento 
and floated companies in Detroit and Chicago and 
other cities until those places had become too hot to 
hold him, and dealt in horses and in cattle in Wyom¬ 
ing and Nebraska, and acted as courier and guide to 
parties of sightseers from many parts of Europe who 
wished to visit Yellowstone and Banff and Yosemite, 
and beauty spots in Colorado, such as Pike’s Peak. 

He had had great good luck and much bad luck. 
Upon the whole the good luck had preponderated, 
especially as he had never once during the whole of his 
career been actually laid by the heels. Several times 
136 


THE FLAME 


137 


he had come near serving a term of imprisonment, but 
on each occasion a trump card had turned up at the 
last moment, and he had been allowed to go scot-free. 

In some respects he was a philosopher; he never let 
misfortune worry him. Worry, he told himself, did 
nobody any good and might bring harm. If he blun¬ 
dered, a thing he rarely did, he was ready to face the 
consequences. He had first met Octavius Milo some 
years before the time when this story opens, while the 
young lawyer was travelling in the Western States 
and the two, recognising that they were birds of a 
feather, though on different social planes, had pres¬ 
ently become intimate and eventually engineered one or 
two highly successful financial coups by which each had 
profited substantially. Marner had also become ac¬ 
quainted with Bobbie Tolhurst while the latter was 
roving the world. He had acted as Bobbie’s guide on 
two occasions when Bobbie was eager to see life. 

The side of life he had shown him in such cities as 
New York, Philadelphia and St. Louis, had not per¬ 
haps been of an elevating nature, but they had inter¬ 
ested Tolhurst and afforded him food for thought. 
Marner, too, had in a way appealed to Tolhurst, be¬ 
neath whose debonair manner lay an artistic and serious 
nature. There was something rough, and strong, and 
fearless and reckless about Marner, which he liked and 
could not help admiring. Tolhurst had, indeed, summed 
him up accurately the first time he had met him. In 
spite of his rough exterior and the complete lack of 
principle or of morals he possessed, Tolhurst instinc¬ 
tively felt, a touch of sentiment somewhere. That he 
had not been mistaken in this, Marner’s memory of his 
old home, and his purchase of the old gate upon which 
in childhood he had hacked his name prove. 


138 


THREE KNOTS 


And now Wal Marner had returned to Great Britain 
with the intention of never leaving it again. He had 
made his pile, a very large pile. He was proud of hav¬ 
ing made it, as he had reason to be. But he never cared 
to dwell long upon the methods he had sometimes em¬ 
ployed in “earning” it. He knew that by rights he 
ought to be in jail, instead of a gentleman at large 
whom common people, hearing how rich he was, were 
inclined to look up to with respect. One firm resolve 
he had made. Now that he had amassed his pile he 
meant to live a “straight” life and become a respectable 
citizen. He wanted a calm existence in place of the 
tumultuous one he had been forced to live for nearly 
thirty years. 

A week after Marner’s disappointing visit to his 
old home in Ireland, there was quite a stir in the little 
bar-parlour of a certain hotel, facing the sea at Shad- 
combe, when a rugged, “hard-bitten,” broad-chested 
man, still in the prime of life, to judge by his appear¬ 
ance, sauntered in and looked about him. He gave a 
cordial nod to the assembled company collectively, sat 
down on the only vacant big chair, and called for the 
waiter. 

“Say now, all you boys!” he exclaimed, waiving his 
arm to embrace them all, “What is it to be?” 

His breezy manner was infectious. Any other stran¬ 
ger coming in like that and adopting such a tone might 
have met with a rebuff, or, at the least have been re¬ 
ceived in silence. Wal Marner’s personality overcame 
that. His manner was entirely natural to him, and a 
man who is entirely natural rarely gives offence. 

In the room were six or eight men. The proprietor 
of the two local journals was unfolding a plan for a 
bazaar for some charitable object. There was a cheery 


THE FLAME 


139 


fellow with a curious voice, interested in shipping, who 
generally had good stories to tell of his frequent voy¬ 
ages to Iceland. 

Marner had not been more than a minute in theij? 
company when two rather young men who had been 
conversing together, addressed him almost simultane¬ 
ously : 

“Wal Marner, surely,” Bobbie Tolhurst said, coming 
towards him with extended hand. “We met last in 
Jersey City, several years ago—-do you remember?” 

“Do I remember? Do I not!” 

He had Tolhurst’s hand in so hearty a grip that the 
young man swore beneath his breath at the pain the 
squeeze caused him. 

“Then you may remember me, too ?” 

The second speaker was Milo. The instant Marner 
heard his voice, he looked up sharply. The way he 
shook Milo’s hand was different. The greeting, though 
outwardly cordial, lacked enthusiasm and spontaneity. 

“Say, that’s me all over,” Marner said a moment 
later. “Wherever I go, I don’t care where it is, I 
meet men I know. You living here, Milo?” 

“No, in Exeter.” 

“Ah, I remember.” He looked hard at him. “I re¬ 
member you some,” he continued. “Remember you too 
much, maybe,” and he gave an odd laugh. “Well, boys, 
glad to meet you all, and here’s good fortune and pretty 
wives.” 

They drank in silence. The trim maid behind the 
bar looked at them with interest. Something about the 
stranger seemed to please her. 

Conversation became general, but interest centred 
round the newcomer. His opinion upon this and that 
was asked, and usually deferred to. He seemed to have 


140 


THREE KNOTS 


been everywhere, and have seen everything outside 
Europe. Of Europe, and of England in particular, 
he appeared to know little. The questions he asked 
relating to the Old Country would, coming from any¬ 
body else, have evoked amusement. 

He was interested in the town; that was clear. The 
proprietor of the local journals was the first to notice 
this, and scenting an asset to the place, engaged him 
in conversation. When presently they stopped talking, 
it was the stranger who had picked the brains of the 
local resident, and not, as is usual, the editor who had 
absorbed the other’s views. 

“Say—does a Mrs. Ashcombe live hereabouts?” 
Marner asked suddenly. He rapped his knuckles on the 
table to attract the attention of the waiter. “Pleasant 
looking woman, with a daughter: daughter name of 
Ella.” 

This awkward questioned silenced everybody. Milo 
was the first to speak. 

“She lives near here,” he said, “at a village a little 
way off. You know her?” 

“I should say so. I met her in the States.” 

“Long ago?” 

“Oh, I met her and her daughter more than once. 
Pleasant woman.” 

“Her daughter is dead, the one you mean.” 

“So? Then it’s true she was murdered.” 

Again all were silent. 

He asked a few more questions, then the conversation 
changed., and eventually he retired. 

Before going to bed that night he wrote a brief letter, 
addressing it to Yvonne. 

“I don’t feel like bed yet, do you?” Tolhurst said, 


THE FLAME 


141 


as he walked with Milo along the Den. “Supposing 
we take a stroll along the sea wall.” 

Milo assented. He and Tolhurst were not exactly 
friends, but Tolhurst had never had reason actually to 
dislike him. There were few people he did dislike, 
being of that happy temperament which enables some 
men to adapt themselves to the moods and idiosyncrasies 
of the people they happen to be with. Milo was not 
a man in whom he would have cared to place great 
confidence, he instinctively felt, but as a casual ac¬ 
quaintance he was as inoffensive as the generality of 
men he had occasion to mix with. 

They talked a good deal about Marner, as they 
walked along the wall. Somehow Tolhurst felt that 
his companion was all the time trying to draw him 
out to say what he knew about the stranger, and this 
set him on his guard. Why should Milo want to know 
so much about Marner, he wondered once or twice. 
And in what way had he and Marner been associated 
in America? He gathered, from one or two remarks 
Milo had let drop, that the two were rather intimately 
acquainted, and that they had, or had had, dealings 
together of some nature. 

“Curious his having met the Ashcombes in America,” 
Tolhurst presently observed. “I wonder how he came 
to hear, out in the States, of the way Ella Ashcombe 
met her death?” 

“Oh, news of that sort gets about,” Milo answered 
carelessly. “I wonder what his relations with the 
Ashcombes were.” 

“How do you mean ‘relations’?” 

“He didn’t speak of her as a casual acquaintance at 
all: didn’t you notice that? Spoke more as if he had 
known them many years.” 


142 


THREE KNOTS 


“Perhaps he has. Why not?” 1 

“Oh, I don’t know. Anyway, it is odd we should 
all meet in a one-horse place like this, after meeting 
in America. Should you say it is a coincidence?” 

“What else do you imply?” 

“I don’t imply anything. All the same, as I have 
reason to know, Wal Marner rarely acts without some 
definite end in view.” 

“Such as?” 

“How can I say? But do you mean to tell me a 
man like that drifts into a place like this without a 
reason? You are not as astute as I thought you 
were.” 

Bobbie Tolhurst laughed, and lit a fresh cigar. 

“I lay no claim to astuteness,” he said. “I leave 
keen wits to lawyers like yourself. By the way, how 
long is Miss Yvonne likely to stay in Shadcombe?” 

“How in the world should I know?” Milo exclaimed 
almost tartly. “You had better ask her. I have 
noticed that she interests you.” 

“One is naturally interested in a charming woman 
of whom one knows nothing,” Tolhurst answered 
lightly. “Yes, I am interested in her. And I should 
like to see her dance. I am told her performance is 
wonderful.” 

“If the antics of an erotic contortionist appeal to 
you, you certainly would think her wonderful.” 

“Then you have seen her dance? You never told 
me that. Where was it? 

Milo bit his lip. 

“In America,” he said shortly. 

“Did you meet here there socially?” 

Tolhurst waited impatiently for the reply. After 
a moment’s pause, Milo answered: 


THE FLAME 


143 


“No” 

This Tolhurst knew to be a lie. Yvonne had told 
him only the day before that she had met Milo, though 
she had not said where. She had added that she had 
no great wish to meet him again, and had asked Bobbie 
not to tell Milo that she had said she knew him. 

They were standing on Splash Point, a projection 
into the sea half-way along the sea wall. From it, 
in the daytime, Gareth Cottage could be seen. They 
had their backs to the cliff and to the cottage which 
stood upon it. When, after talking a little longer, 
they turned with the intention of going home, both 
uttered an exclamation. 

Though every other house was in darkness, and 
therefore invisible, for the night was dark, the windows 
of Gareth Cottage were brilliantly lit up. 

Tolhurst looked at his watch. 

“And it is past one o’clock,” he said. 

They stood watching the cottage nestling in the 
high valley in a cleft between the cliffs, for some mo¬ 
ments. Then, all at once, a red and yellow flame shot 
up into the blackness, followed quickly by another, 

“It’s on fire!” Tolhurst exclaimed. 


CHAPTER XV 


yvonne’s idea 

By the time Tolhurst and Milo arrived at Gareth 
Cottage, the whole house was ablaze. Half an hour 
later, when the fire was beginning to die down, fire- 
engines, drawn by attenuated cab horses, at a slow 
canter, came down the hill from Shadcombe and the 
hill from Dawlish almost simultaneously; at that time 
the engines and the fire appliances that these towns 
boasted were wonderful and fearsome contrivances. 

Fortunately no lives had been lost, but nearly all 
Mrs. Ashcombe’s belongings had been destroyed. Mrs. 
Ashcombe herself, Polly, the cook, and Charlotte the 
maid, had taken refuge in a neighbour’s house. 

When Tolhurst found Mrs. Ashcombe and was about 
to express sympathy, he was astonished at her self- 
possession. Polly was greatly upset, and the cook 
and Charlotte remained hysterical for some time. 

“After all,” Mrs. Ashcombe said, as she lay back 
in an arm-chair, sipping a glass of sherry, “it is not 
as though the cottage were not insured. Indeed, in¬ 
directly, we shall benefit, for it was insured up to the 
hilt, and I had nothing of great value there.” 

“Have you any idea how the fire originated?” Milo 
asked. 

“None. The grates were all old, so perhaps a wooden 
beam at the back of one of them became ignited. That 
happens sometimes in old houses. The fire broke out 
144 


YVONNE’S IDEA 145 

apparently in the dining-room. We had a fire lit there 
this evening, as the air was chilly.” 

While she talked, Polly kept looking at her oddly. 
Her face wore the same expression as on that night her 
mother had fainted in the drawing-room. 

But she made no comment. 

And on the following afternoon, when Grey went 
to see the Ashcombes, Mrs. Ashcombe was quite cheer¬ 
ful. He, too, was surprised. Upon his return to 
Shadcombe he mentioned this to Irene Baxter, who 
was staying at an hotel with her “half-sister,” Madame 
Yvonne. Milo had kept his part of the bargain made 
with Irene Baxter, and had spoken no word about the 
discovery he had made that night in the lane. 

“I have no doubt whatever,” she said bluntly, when 
Grey stopped* speaking, “that the fire was started by 
Mrs. Ashcombe herself, and intentionally. But of 
course you must not hint that I think that.” 

“Why should she have started it?” 

“I will tell you later on. I told you once, if you 
remember, that Gareth Cottage had twelve chimneys, 
but only eleven rooms. I noticed that the first day I 
was cook there. Chimneys are not put up as orna¬ 
ments, you know. Now I have just been told that 
during the fire a room nobody had ever known existed, 
became disclosed. My informant was Vera Trevor, 
who, as you know, is a matter-of-fact little person not 
addicted to drawing upon her imagination. She was 
motoring from Exeter with Mrs. Monckton when the 
fire broke out, and they saw the whole conflagration. 
She says the room was a small one, and that it ad¬ 
joined the one in which the crime was committed. I 
tried to find out where it lay, when I was in the house, 
but never could.” 


146 


THREE KNOTS 


This discovery set Grey thinking, and all Shadcombe 
and the neighbourhood talking. It seemed that when 
the fire was at its height, a partitioning wall had sud¬ 
denly collapsed, revealing several rooms, one of which, 
the “mystery-room,” contained a lot of piled-up sacks 
filled with something—of course nobody could guess 
what—a complete suit of armour, some halberds, a 
heavy-looking table, apparently old oak, and several 
Chippendale chairs. That was all that could be dis¬ 
cerned through the smoke, though the story got about 
that some curious-looking apparatus had also been 
seen in the room before the floor crashed down, and 
hurled the lot into a fiery furnace amid what resembled, 
as the local paper said next day, “a volcanic eruption 
of sparks.” 

Mrs. Ashcombe and Polly took rooms in the leading 
hotel in Shadcombe, being temporarily without a home. 
It thus came about that Yvonne and Irene Baxter, the 
latter still masquerading as a boy and still believed 
to be Grey’s old school chum, “Frank Rawlins,” in a 
few days became very friendly with the Ashcombes, 
and that Wal Marner, as a former acquaintance of 
the Ashcombes, renewed his acquaintanceship. 

It was Yvonne who, some days after the fire, one 
day suggested, while they were all lunching together, 
that a visit should be paid to the scene of the fire. 

“How can we tell,” she said with her pretty laugh, 
“that we may not come upon some of Mrs. Ashcombe’s 
valuables amongst the debris?” 

She turned to Mrs. Ashcombe. 

“Is it not true,” she said in the candid way she had 
of talking, which was so charming, “that some of your 
jewellery was swallowed up in the fire?” 

Mrs. Ashcombe gave a little shrug. 


YVONNE’S IDEA 


147 


“Oh, not anything of consequence,” she answered 
with assumed indifference. “I never had much jewel¬ 
lery. It does not appeal to me.” 

“That is the first time,” Marner put in, laughing 
broadly, “I have ever heard a woman say that jewel¬ 
lery didn’t appeal to her. Say, I think Miss Yvonne’s 
idea is a good one. Shall we do it?” 

Mrs. Ashcombe did not seem anxious to, but as 
the rest apparently wanted to, she fell in with the idea. 

The place they found desolate enough. Nothing 
had been touched since the fire, and what had been 
a pretty, old-world cottage was now a heap of grey 
dust and charred timbers, with only the outer walls 
standing. 

One of the most interested in the search appeared 
to be Frank Rawlins. He separated himself from the 
rest of the party soon after* they arrived, and proceeded 
to poke about amongst the blackened embers with 
his stick, prodding a pile of ashes here, pushing 
over a blackened beam there, the while apparently 
engrossed in what he was doing. Once or twice Mrs. 
Ashcombe glanced at him curiously. Finally she 
called out, partly in fun, though she sounded a little 
annoyed: 

“Do you really think, Mr. Rawlins, that you will 
find anything? Because I don’t.” 

Almost as she spoke he bent down, thrust his arm 
under some debris almost up to the elbow, then straight¬ 
ened himself again and called out: 

“But I have found something.” 

In his hand he held a small metal crucifix. About 
eight inches long, the cross was elaborately engraved. 
The figure was made of brass. This, however, was not 
apparent until afterwards. Now, as he looked at it, 


148 


THREE KNOTS 


both cross and figure resembled a bit of metal that 
has been heated in a fire and allowed to cool. 

“You had better take it, Mrs. Ashcombe,” he said, 
holding it out to her. 

But Polly, who was nearer to him, stretched out her 
hand. 

“Why, mother,” she exclaimed, examining the cruci¬ 
fix, “whose is this? I don’t remember ever seeing it 
before.” 

Mrs. Ashcombe took it from her. 

“Nor I,” she said rather awkwardly, after scrutinis¬ 
ing it for some minutes. 

“Say, it may have been in that room nobody knew 
was there,” Marner observed tactlessly. 

No one noticed the slight flush that at once spread 
over Mrs. Ashcombe’s face—except Polly. And, she 
wondered again, as she had so often wondered be¬ 
fore. Without a doubt, she told herself, there was 
something about Mrs. Ashcombe that she could not 
understand. 

That was all that Irene Baxter, or anybody else, 
found, though they continued their search for over half 
an hour. 

As they all walked homeward along the sea wall, 
Marner was inspecting the crucifix, which he held near 
his face, when he suddenly said: 

“Do you value this greatly, Mrs. Ashcombe?” 

“I don’t value it at all,” she answered, smiling. 

“Then, may I buy it off you?” 

“Buy it? Don’t be so silly, Mr. Marner. Keep it, 
I don’t want it.” 

“That is very kind of you. Then I will keep it,” 
and he slipped it into his pocket. As he did so, his 
eyes and Yvonne’s met. There seemed to be some secret 


YVONNE’S IDEA 


149 


understanding between them. Irene noticd the quick 
glance, but kept her own counsel. There was little 
she did not notice. 

Wal Marner had engaged a suite of rooms at the 
hotel. It consisted of a bedroom, a sitting-room and a 
bathroom. In the hall, when they all returned from 
their visit to the scene of the fire, Marner stood a 
little away apart with Yvonne. 

“I’ve ordered supper for two in my sitting-room 
to-night at ten o’clock,” he said in a quick under¬ 
tone. “I have something important to say to you. 
Will you come?” 

She glanced to right and left. There was no one 
within earshot. 

“Yes,” she answered. “But nobody must know.” 

“Nobody will know.” 

During the tete-a-tete meal, Marner, usually so self- 
possessed and so talkative, was singularly silent. Also 
he seemed embarrassed, almost bored. He kept crum¬ 
bling his bread in his fingers, and his conversation was 
at times banal. Yvonne could not make it out. Her¬ 
self in high spirits and vivacious as ever, she tried to 
draw him out and make him sociable. Her attempts 
proved futile. 

When supper had been cleared away, and they were 
again alone, she blew a cloud of cigarette smoke towards 
the ceiling, then said suddenly: 

“I thought you had something important to say to 
me.” 

“I have,” he answered without looking at her. 
“Something very important.” 

“Of a commercial nature, I suppose! Or has it to 
do with the crime?” 

“Oh, don’t talk like that!” he exclaimed. “Matters 


150 


THREE KNOTS 


of that sort will keep. I have something more impor¬ 
tant, much more important, to say to you, Yvonne.” 

He faced her suddenly, his eyes ablaze. 

“Can’t you guess ?” 

She pursed her lips, and gave a little shrug, then 
seemed to peep at him shyly from beneath her long 
lashes. 

“You are not going to ask me to marry you, surely?” 

She was laughing now, and when she laughed she was 
bewitching. Her small, extraordinarily white teeth 
showed in even rows. 

“/ ami But don’t laugh like that, Yvonne. I can’t 
bear it. I do ask you to marry me. You can’t con¬ 
ceive how I have come to love you, how I do adore 
you. You know what I am. I know what you are. 
We have both led pretty desperate lives, if I may put 
it like that. We both know the world, in the broadest 
sense, and our lives have in some respects been similar.” 

In the stress of his emotion his mode of expression 
had changed. He no longer spoke in the least like an 
American. 

“If you will marry me,” he leant forward towards 
her in his chair and spoke in a lower voice. “If you 
will marry me I will settle the whole of my fortune 
on you. Now you know whether I love you really 
or not!” 

“In other words, you offer me spot cash if I will 
sell myself to you.” 

She was teasing him, as a cat teases a mouse. It 
may have been her rather feline nature that made her 
enjoy watching this great, strong man, who had carved 
his way up in life from the gutter to the topmost rung, 
metaphorically writhe. She remembered the occasion 
when he had sent for her after her performance at 


YVONNE’S IDEA 


151 


the Midway Plaisaunce, and how frightened she had in¬ 
wardly felt when he had threatened her that night. The 
tables were turned, now. 

“Are you sure it is not because I may be of use to 
you—you told me once, remember, that you envied 
me the gift I have of ‘imitating’ handwritings-—that 
you want to have me completely in your power?” 

“Please, please, don’t talk like that,” he burst out, 
suddenly standing up. He took a step towards her. 
Then with a quick movement} he placed both hands upon 
her shoulders and held her firmly. She winced under 
the grip, then, throwing back her head, stared up into 
his eyes. She no longer smiled, or pretended to look 
sly, or had recourse to the outwardly meaningless, 
though in reality significant, coquetry which some mo¬ 
ments before she had affected. After a short silence 
she said, in a deeply earnest tone: 

“Is that the truth, Wal Marner? Is it possible that 
any man, that you of all men, can really have come 
to regard me in that way after the lives we have both 
led?” 

Suddenly she burst out laughing. Her laughter 
sounded metallic and hysterical, almost harsh. It 
ceased abruptly. 

“Look here, Wal Marner,” she exclaimed in a low, 
tense tone, “if you are fooling me, as dozens of men 
have tried to do, some successfully—ah, how I curse 
them for it!—by heaven, you shall regret it. If I 
dared let myself go, let my heart expand, if I dared 
give rein to my soul where you are concerned-—ah, 
but no, no, I don’t and won’t trust any man, least 
of all you, Wal Marner, with your record. You 
think I don’t know? I could tell you things I know 
about you that you wouldn’t dream I know. Lovel 


152 


THREE KNOTS 


Do you know how a strong woman loves—how I love? 
Ah, if only I could trust you .... if only .... if 
only . . . 

In her agitation she too had risen to her feet. She 
was trembling all over, pale as death, her lips slightly 
parted, her breath coming fast as her bosom rose and 
fell. 

She was a woman of marvellously strong character— 
resolute, fearless. She was a woman who from girl¬ 
hood had crushed her better nature, her fine, generous 
instincts, because almost from childhood she had seen 
around her naught but evil and sin, hypocrisy and vice 
of every sort. It was in her nature to be trustful and 
confiding, but that was all long since dead, strangled 
at its inception, and in its place had grown up cun¬ 
ning and mistrust and deceit and wickedness. 

For some moments they stood there looking at each 
other, each striving to fathom the other’s deepest 
thoughts. Neither spoke. They were two strong na¬ 
tures, two powerful personalities brought suddenly to 
bay. The man longed for this woman as never, 
throughout the whole of his varied and adventurous 
life, had he longed for anything. 

And the woman? She, too, loved for the first time 
in her life, but for the moment her head was stronger 
than her heart. She yearned, with an intensity she did 
not as yet realise, to open her heart to him, and offer 
to become his slave. But her knowledge of life, knowl¬ 
edge which had been so bitter, steeled her will, prevented 
her trusting him, urged her to be cautious. 

A fearful struggle waged within her. It was a 
battle between good and evil, between her better judg¬ 
ment and her better nature, between love and prudence. 
Should she cast prudence aside, once again? Should 


YVONNE’S IDEA 


153 


she once more take the risk of being fooled and cast 
aside? What would one disappointment, one disillu¬ 
sionment more or less matter? Ah, but all the others 
did not count. They had only bruised her heart, 
bruised and sometimes lacerated it, perhaps. But 
if this man should prove to be no better than the rest, 
should turn out an impostor and a liar .... 

She could not bear to think about what would hap¬ 
pen to her then. Her heart would be broken, her spirit 
crushed. Her strong nature had enabled her to bear 
hard blows and recover from them in time; but when 
such a nature is struck down it can never rise again. 

Suddenly she spoke: 

“Wal Marner,” she said, steadying her voice, “I 
don’t know if I can trust you. Women have insight 
into men’s characters, but my insight cannot fathom 
yours. To-night I am going to take my fate in both 
hands. I meant, I had vowed, never in life to trust 
another man. But I am going to trust you, Wal 
Marner; why, I do not know, except that I love you. 
What I am doing now may mean little enough to you. 
It means everything to me.” 

She covered her face with her hands and burst into 
an agony of weeping. As she did so, she felt his arms 
suddenly close around her. 

“My love,” she heard him murmur, “if I am not tell¬ 
ing you the truth, if I ever go back on one word of 
what I have promised, and I promise you again now 
that I will make you the happiest woman on earth, 
so far as I have the power to-” 



CHAPTER XVI 


MARNER THE MYSTERIOUS 

The people of Ireland and of the West of England 
have much in common. They are hospitable, sensitive, 
highly strung. Incidentally they are quick to resent 
an insult, and anything approaching injustice stirs 
all their worst passions. 

The people of Newfoundland are practically all of 
Irish or of West Country descent. Years ago, Irish 
men and women, and natives of Devon, Somerset and 
Cornwall, and of the south-western counties of Wales, 
emigrated to Newfoundland and Labrador in their 
thousands to pursue the fishing industry. Thus it 
comes that to-day a great part of the population of 
Newfoundland speaks with a strong brogue, though 
neither these people nor their parents have ever been 
in Ireland. They have inherited, too, the good quali¬ 
ties and the faults of their forefathers, with the result 
that Newfoundlanders are among the most genial and 
hospitable folk to be found on one side of the Atlantic. 

Just before the time of this story a saucy little craft 
called The Bruce plied to and fro between St. John’s, 
Newfoundland, and the coast of Nova Scotia. In win¬ 
ter her voyages were slow and laborious, due to the 
ice-floes, which greatly impeded her progress. St. 
John’s Harbour is not unlike the mouth of the River 
Dart, at Dartmouth. On either side a steep mountain 
154 


MARNER THE MYSTERIOUS 


155 


slope curves down to St. John’s harbour, in summer a 
picturesque vista. St. John’s itself is built upon the 
north side of the river, a single street encircling it. 
There then were few hotels, and poor ones at that, 
but there were many hotel-boarding-houses which visi¬ 
tors patronised largely. Towering high above all other 
buildings is the Roman Catholic Cathedral, which in 
winter is warmed weekly by the united breath of at least 
ten thousand worshippers, of whom the great majority 
are men. For the people of Newfoundland are a deeply 
religious race, superstitious, maybe, to some extent, 
owing to beliefs inherited from their forbears. 

To-day the seal-fishing industry is one of the most 
flourishing in Newfoundland. Annually, in winter, a 
large fleet of trawlers puts out to sea, then gradually 
spreads out in many different directions. Ships re¬ 
main at sea for weeks, sometimes for months at a time, 
and when they return to port there is feasting and 
thanksgiving. But during their long absence horrible 
cruelty is enacted. 

When the seals have been sighted, baby seals for 
the most part and therefore at the mercy of the sealers, 
every attempt is made to cut them off from the water 
as they lie unsuspectingly upon the ice. This, usually, 
is not difficult to accomplish. At once the whole crew 
scrambles over the boat’s sides, and with savage cries 
rushes forward to the massacre. Hundreds, thousands 
of the little baby seals, calling piteously for their 
mothers, are slaughtered by being struck upon the head 
with the short staves the sealers carry, and no sooner 
is the massacre complete than the bodies are swiftly 
skinned and then deserted, so that by the time the 
“hunters” again embark, the ice for miles around re¬ 
sembles a snowy battlefield strewm with crimson corpses. 


156 


THREE KNOTS 


There is at Newton Abbot, which lies six miles west 
of Shadcombe, an hostelry, which is the meeting place 
of Newfoundlanders, and of Newfoundland fishermen 
and sealers in particular, who may chance to come 
to Shadcombe, or to Torquay, or to Brixham, or to 
Dartmouth, or to Plymouth, or to any other port upon 
the South Coast within a short distance by rail. This 
inn has been in existence from a period, as the lawyers 
say, “so far back that the memory of man runneth 
not to the contrary.” And it was from this inn that 
Wal Marner emerged one evening in late August. 

He looked pleased with himself, and he had reason 
to be. His plans for the future were developing to 
his satisfaction: the one woman in the world he really 
cared for, loved him whole-heartedly in return; and a 
rather peculiar undertaking in Ireland in which he 
had become actively interested, seemed likely to de¬ 
velop in a manner even he, though an optimist, had 
never expected it could do. 

His car awaited him close to the clock tower. He 
stepped into it, and told his driver to run him back 
to Shadcombe. 

By the time the race-course and Kingsteignton had 
been left behind, his brain was working at high pressure. 

He had just been talking to an old sealer whom he 
had last met on the beach of a picturesque inlet on the 
coast of Newfoundland, called Pinch Tiddle Cove. 
Many of the inlets there have such far-fetched names. 
There is one, for instance, called Sweetest-when-Sunny, 
another is known as the Hot Embrace. Such grotesque 
designations were given to these places probably in the 
very early days of Irish and West Country emigra¬ 
tion, by people whose alleged humour was upon a par 
with their moral laxity. This old sealer had been 


MARNER THE MYSTERIOUS 


157 


years before a seaman on a small tramp trading ves¬ 
sel. He had touched many ports in far distant lands 
and had quitted few without first benefiting pecuniar¬ 
ily by one method or another. For, in spite of his 
lack of education, he was a shrewd, far-seeing fellow, 
and wholly lacked integrity. 

So George Ashcombe was dead. That information, 
imparted by the old sealer, was, at any rate, good 
hearing. Dead men tell no tales, and Ashcombe had 
been a man who might, at any time, had he happened 
upon Wal Mamer, have blackmailed him to some pur¬ 
pose. There were one or two others, Marner reflected 
as he sped along, he wished were dead too. One of 
them was Milo. 

His thoughts flashed from point to point. Presently, 
he wondered if the old sealer had not been mistaken 
when, some minutes before, he had declared to him 
that a certain ancient mariner, Joe Soper by name, was 
still alive and living in the neighbourhood. Soper, 
who at one time had been another of his tools, must 
be getting very old now, he reflected. It seemed re¬ 
markable his being still alive. He had always been 
a hard drinker, he would have supposed he must have 
died of drink long ago. It might be awkward if he 
met that man too, again. 

The car shot past the turning up to Bishopsteignton. 

“There is no hurry,” Marner called to his chauffeur. 
“Go quite slowly.” 

His thoughts interested him. He had no wish to 
cut them short. 

The various people he had met since his return from 
America came one by one into his mind. As they did 
so, he summed up each quickly, and for the most part 
accurately. There were a few people he had become 


158 


THREE KNOTS 


acquainted with in Ireland, a few in London, and quite 
a lot here in Devonshire. 

There were the Moncktons, and Mrs. Monckton’s 
coterie, and some men at the Shadcombe Club, and 
some at the Newton Abbot Club, and Mrs. Ashcombe 
and Polly, and Milo and Tolhurst, whom he had met 
before in America, and that peculiar girl-detective, 
Irene Baxter—whom he knew all about—who for some 
weeks had successfully masqueraded in Shadcombe as 
a youth, and there was Gerald Grey .... 

Yes, he liked Gerald Grey. He liked him exceedingly. 
Exactly why, he could not say. Possibly it was be¬ 
cause his personality was so utterly different from the 
personality of the great majority of the men he had 
mixed with during his roving life. Was the little 
detective at all attracted by Grey . . . ? 

The thought came to him unbidden. It had not 
occurred to him before, but now .... 

He went on thinking about this. And the more he 
thought about it, the more various little incidents and 
happenings now came back to him which, when they 
had occurred, he had hardly noticed. Oh, yes, there 
could not be a doubt of it. There was an understand¬ 
ing of some kind between Grey and Irene Baxter. But 
they were keeping it very secret. Probably nobody 
but he had noticed anything up to the present. 

And again his thoughts reverted to Yvonne. 

He had made great plans regarding Yvonne. She 
had put her trust in him, had abandoned herself to 
him entirely. Well, he meant to prove to her very 
soon that in so doing she had not erred. What a 
woman among women she was in his eyes. 

He thought of Mrs. Monckton. He had not met 
her often, but he liked her. She w^as so unlike most 


MARNER THE MYSTERIOUS 


159 


of the women residents in the neighbourhood. How 
little she suspected he could read her like a book, 
grasp her innermost thoughts, tot up her true charac¬ 
ter, her qualities and her failings. Yes, Mrs. Willie 
Monckton was a woman to be trusted. She was not 
the sort of woman who stabs other women in the back. 
She had not a spiteful nature. Her outlook upon life 
was broad. Some day, he reflected, Yvonne might need 
a champion. If that day ever came, Mrs. Monckton 
would, he felt, be her champion. 

And then, all at once, he thought of the singular 
murder six months before. Presently he chuckled. 

“If only,” he said mentally, “these people knew what 
I know. There would be little mystery then.” 

Then he thought of Milo, and frowned. 

“What a scoundrel!” he said to himself. 

Kingston and the tennis courts and Shadcombe’s 
pretty harbour came into view upon his right. A tug 
steamer was piloting in a sailing ship across the bar. 
Over at Kingston roundabouts blared, and he saw that 
a regatta was in progress. The sound of a sharp re¬ 
port rang across the water, and the white sails of some 
fishing boats started off in line. 

“Stop!” he called out. The car pulled up with a 
scraping sound. 

He sat watching the race between the little boats. 
How pretty they looked overtaking each other. One, 
with a red sail, was fast forging ahead. 

A man seated on a bench, and also watching the 
regatta, suddenly lowered his glass. 

“Would you like to look?” he asked, holding out the 
binocular. 

“I should, for a moment. Thank you very much,” 
as he took the glass. 


160 


THREE KNOTS 


Marner watched the boats. Then he scanned the 
crowds upon the beach beside the river and swarming 
about the booths and tents, scrambling on to the 
roundabouts. He looked at Ness House, then swept 
the rocks below the Ness. The lenses were very power¬ 
ful. He could distinguish people’s features. All at 
once he stopped. The glass was focused upon some 
fishermen hauling in their net. A little way apart 
from them stood a weather-beaten tar. He smoked a 
short pipe. His hands were in his pockets. He was 
doing nothing, merely looking on. He wore a seaman’s 
jersey and corduroys and sea boots. 

As he watched this man, Marner’s lips became com¬ 
pressed. Yes, he was not mistaken. That old tar 
could be none other, was none other than .... 

“Red sail wins—wins easily!” 

The speaker was the owner of the field-glass. All 
the time Marner had been using it, he had been, un¬ 
known to Marner, standing up in the car scrutinising 
his features. 

“No doubt of that,” Marner answered. “Here, take 
your glass back to watch the finish.” 

So Joe Soper he had so fervently hoped, not half 
an hour ago, he would never see again, whom he had 
even hoped might have drunk himself to death, was not 
dead. Well, he was glad he had just made a certain 
suggestion to the old sealer, or rather, hinted it very 
broadly. The sealer he knew to be an unscrupulous 
scoundrel; he might actually do what he, Marner, had 
proposed! 

But anyhow, he must set to work and find out where 
Soper lived, then formulate some plan to keep the 
man’s mouth shut. It would never do to have him 
living there close by, with the knowledge he possessed. 


MARNER THE MYSTERIOUS 


161 


He would soon hear that a rich visitor named Marner 
was stopping in the town, he would make inquiries and 
then .... 

But why not leave the town? No, he liked the place, 
and he liked the residents he had met there. He had 
almost decided to buy a house nearby, possibly at Ring- 
more, on the Kingston side of the river. It would be 
pleasant to stay there sometimes with Yvonne; but he 
could not do that if this man were hanging about. 

Another pistol shot echoed across the water. Red 
sail had won the race. The sound of frantic cheering 
came faintly across the water. 

There was yet another shot, the sharp crack of a 
small pistol. 

The man with the glass had fired it and Marner col¬ 
lapsed on to the floor of the car in a heap. Instantly 
the driver turned, sprang from his seat and rushed at 
the assailant. But before he could reach him, two more 
shots had been discharged. The driver stumbled for¬ 
ward and lay flat upon his face on the dusty road. 

The toll-keeper, totting up his accounts in the lodge 
at the bridge-head, heard the shots. So did several 
people walking along the bridge. But they paid no 
attention. They supposed the reports had to do with 
the regatta. 

The man with the glass slipped his pistol back into 
his pocket, then looked up and down the road. 

Nobody was in sight. He walked a little way in the 
direction of Shadcombe, then turned to the left up a 
steep, narrow, high-shouldered lane which would even¬ 
tually lead him, as he knew, out on to the Haldon Moor. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 

Autumn had come again. The whole of the West 
Country from Exeter to Plymouth and beyond it, was 
a red and green expanse, patched with woodlands of 
copper and russet, and browns of various shades, and 
amber and gold and fawn, with here and there thatched 
hamlets and solitary whitewashed cottages with tiled 
or slated roofs. From deep valleys and cramped 
meadows came the clatter of reaping machines and the 
hoarse cries of farm drivers urging their teams along, 
the cracking of whips and occasionally a volley of 
reports, as some party of partridge shooters fired a 
salvo into a fleeing covey. The whole country was 
beautiful and peaceful; the landscapes upon all sides 
picturesque in the extreme. 

In the grassgrown lanes with their high banks on 
either side, which extend in a sort of network from 
Haldon past Luton Bottom, down to Chudleigh and 
Bovey Tracey, embracing on their way Ideford and 
other villages, a young man and a young woman, who 
looked little more than a girl, roamed aimlessly. For 
a mile or more they had strolled along without speak¬ 
ing. The afternoon was well advanced, and away over 
Dartmoor where the great black tors stood outlined 
against the sky, the sun was slowly sinking. 

Suddenly the girl spoke. 

162 


THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 


163 


“You know, Gerald,” she said, “I am most bitterly 
disappointed. I had so hoped, and I fully expected, 
that long before now I should have solved the Hol¬ 
combe problem and so set your mind at rest. But 
I am obliged to admit to-day that the mystery has 
baffled me, defeated me utterly and completely, at least 
I fear so. I have discovered a good deal, I know, and 
some parts of the puzzle fit, but some do not fit, 
and several are still missing. And the missing parts 
are just those with the most important links.” 

Her companion remained silent. He did not even 
look at her. 

“Are you annoyed with me, disappointed in me, 
Gerald?” she went on anxiously. “I have tried very 
hard, I have done my best, I have indeed. Since I 
came into this profession, which you say you dislike 
so, I have never worked so hard at any case that has 
been brought to me to deal with. This failure is a 
blow to my pride too, I can assure you. You know 
how I have always boasted to you that no problem 
of this sort could be too intricate for me to disentangle. 
Well, I admit now that the Holcombe mystery has 
beaten me.” 

As she stopped, he turned and stood looking down 
into her face. 

“Poor little girl,” he said in a tone of sympathy, and 
he took her in his arms and kissed her. 

Was he growing fond of her, even coming to love 
her? He wondered this as they sat together a little 
later, watching the sun disappearing below Hay Tor. 
Hitherto he had looked upon her only as a friend, 
perhaps as his best friend. That night, near Hol¬ 
combe, when he had kissed her hair and fondled her as 
she stood with him in her male attire, he had been 


164 


THREE KNOTS 


carried away by a passing impulse. It was the sight 
of her glorious hair with the moonbeams shining down 
upon it that had stirred him that night. But now 
the feeling he experienced was different. Also it was 
not transitory. Though his moment of deep emotion 
was over, the powerful affection he had then begun 
to feel for her remained. And as it remained, so did 
the memory of Ella Ashcombe begin to fade. 

In silence they watched the fiery autumn sun van¬ 
ish completely, leaving a fierce, ruddy glow across 
a wide expanse of moor. Gradually the red glow 
again grew pink, then a deeper pink, which in turn 
blended into purple and finally darkened to a deep 
leaden hue. 

In the darkness their tongues once more became 
loosened, but now they spoke only of things of com¬ 
mon interest. There was no reference to the passionate 
incident of a little while before. Subconsciously, each 
felt rather ashamed of what had happened. The girl 
fancied, wrongly, that Grey might think less of her 
because of her weakness towards him. Grey, on the 
other hand, felt he had deceived her by surrendering 
to an emotion when he did not as yet love her. 

“It is natural, I suppose,” she said presently in a 
low voice, “that my services have not been sought in 
connection with Mr. Marner.” 

“There was talk of employing Baxter’s Agency,” he 
answered; “but the proposal was rejected.” 

“Why was that?” 

“There were some who disapproved. It was urged 
at a meeting of the District Council, the day after 
the crime, that the police should handle the affair. 
When Baxter’s was mentioned—you don’t mind my 
telling you?—it was pointed out that this agency had 


THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 


165 


failed to unravel the Holcombe mystery. You see, 
every one knows that I employed Baxter’s Agency.” 

“Who in particular turned down the proposal?” 
Irene asked in a hard voice. 

“Well, as you ask, I may as well tell you. Octavius 
Milo, though resident in Exeter, has interests in Shad- 
combe, and is on the District Council. When Baxter’s 
was mooted, he voted dead against it.” 

“Oh!” 

After a short pause she asked: 

“Is Mr. Marner getting better?” 

“Yes. I heard only to-day that he is recovering 
rapidly. The bullet grazed his temple, as I think I told 
you in my letter, and he was unconscious for some 
hours. After that he was delirious; they feared that 
brain fever would set in. During his delirium he talked 
very strangely; I mean he spoke very freely. The doc¬ 
tor told me that he kept calling out ‘Yvonne.’ 

“She has been with him a lot, and has nursed him 
day and night. She refused to let any nurse come near 
him. His thoughts seemed to wander all over the 
world, the doctor also told me. He spoke of strange 
happenings, and people we both know—the Ashcombes, 
and Bobbie Tolhurst, and Milo; also of you and me, 
and of Mrs. Monckton and her friends. The doctor 
said that some things he spoke about in his delirium 
he felt he ought not to repeat. Marner talked a lot 
about the sea, too, and of happenings in Newfound¬ 
land. Oh, and he alluded more than once to poor 
Ella’s death.” 

“The doctor told you that?” 

“Yes. However, he is sane enough now, and should 
be out and about soon. There was an inquest on the 
chauffeur. Poor fellow, both bullets went straight into 


166 


THREE KNOTS 


his brain. He was killed instantaneously and leaves 
a wife and children.” 

‘‘How dreadful! You told me the pistol used was 
apparently a small one.” 

“A pocket automatic, the police think. The bullets 
were nickel-plated, twenty-five calibre. They think the 
pistol used must have been a Webley-Scott automatic. 
No one has the least idea who committed the crime, 
or why it was committed. The police are inclined 
to think a woman may have done it.” 

“Oh, no, not a woman. If a woman had done it, 
it would have been from some motive of revenge. 
Therefore, she would not have shot the chauffeur. 
Her act of revenge accomplished, she would not have 
cared what afterwards happened to her. No, the man 
who fired those shots was some cool, habitual criminal. 
He would not have attempted the crime had any one 
been in sight. The crime was premeditated, that is to 
say he meant to do it; but he may not have meant 
to do it then. The opportunity occurred unexpectedly 
and he seized it. I am sure I am right about that.” 

Again she was silent a minute. 

“Have you never wondered, Gerald,” she asked sud¬ 
denly, “what became of that bundle tied up with string 
that was found at Hole Head, and given to the police?” 

“I have wondered often and often.” 

“Do you remember the Chief Constable, who gave 
evidence at Miss Ashcombe’s inquest, and was a witness 
also at your trial?” 

“Quite well.” 

“His manner, if you remember, both at the inquest 
and at the trial was said to be very strange.” 

“It was very strange. Not a bit like his ordinary 
manner. I know the man welL” 


THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 


167 


“Nobody has ever suspected him of knowing any¬ 
thing about the Holcombe crime, I suppose because he 
is the Constable. I have suspected him all along. And 
I believe it is due to him that we heard no more about 
that bundle. Gerald, I believe the Constable is the 
man who shot Mr. Marner.” 

“Oh, but why? It seems to me most unlikely. He 
is a steady, respectable man. I have known him for 
some years.” 

“And I have known ‘steady, respectable men’ who 
in reality were criminals. Listen. That Constable was 
born and brought up in California. Then he became a 
sailor on a tramp trading ship. He was a great deal 
in Iceland. You have a man living in Shadcombe 
who often goes to Iceland. That man met Jeffries 
in Reykiavik. They became friendly. Later, the Shad¬ 
combe man brought Jeffries to England and to Shad¬ 
combe. Some time afterwards Jeffries decided that he 
would like to join the police. The Shadcombe man 
put him in the way of doing so, said he had known him 
a long time and went out of his way to recommend him 
very strongly to the authorities. Jeffries was ac¬ 
cepted, and by his ability, intelligence and devotion to 
duty was quickly promoted, and eventually was ap¬ 
pointed Chief Constable. All this I have found out 
recently, or, rather, my agency has found it out.” 

“Still, I don’t see how that makes him guilty of 
shooting Marner, or even casts any suspicion.” 

“There is much more that I could tell you, but 
I had better not tell it to you yet. But this I will 
say. I believe that Miss Ashcombe and Mr. Marner’s 
chauffeur were both murdered by sailors, or by men 
who had been sailors. Whether or not both crimes 
were committed by the same man I cannot yet say. 


168 


THREE KNOTS 


I consider that there is more than a possibility that 
this may have been so. Do you remember the cave 
on Haldon, that we discovered at the picnic ?” 

“Of course.” 

“And the letter received by Madame Yvonne which 
explained how to locate it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you remember the hank of twine, tarred twine, 
that was found there, and the tallow candles?” 

“I remember everything. You recollect I said in 
court that I had an excellent memory.” 

“You hardly need an excellent memory to remember 
that.” 

Her tone told him that she was smiling. 

“Now, just where the car stood in which Mr. Marner 
was found unconscious, a bit of tarred twine was picked 
up. There was a knot in the end of it, a rather pe¬ 
culiar knot. So far as I have been able to ascertain 
up to the present, that knot was very like the knots 
in the bit of tarred twine with which poor Miss Ash- 
combe was strangled.” 

“How on earth have you found all this out, Irene?” 

“One of my people has been down here since I left. 
He is staying in a farmhouse near Bishopsteignton, 
and I am sleeping there to-night. That is why I sug¬ 
gested our meeting in these lanes; this lane leads down 
to the farm, which isn’t far from here.” 

She looked at her illuminated wrist-watch. 

“Which reminds me,” she said in a softer tone, “that 
we ought to be parting.” 

He took her hand in his, and squeezed it. 

When he strolled into the Club, after dining alone 
at home, Grey found Milo and Bobbie Tolhurst up¬ 
stairs playing billiards. On the raised seats around 


THE UNSOLVED PROBLEM 169 

the table several members lounged, watching the game. 
The retired Colonel was among them. 

Milo, after making his stroke, looked across at Grey 
queerly. Some minutes later he observed carelessly: 

“Your man gave me a lift this afternoon, Grey. 
Your car overtook me on the Exeter Road, just above 
the cemetery.” 

“He will always do that, if you ask him,” Grey an¬ 
swered. “Not like some people’s drivers.” 

“Said he had dropped you at Haldon,” Milo went on, 
potting the red. “On your way to see a rural client, 
I presume?” 

Some of the onlookers laughed. 

“Where are you going to, my pretty client?” the 
Colonel observed, dryly. 

There was more laughter at this. The Colonel’s sly 
sallies usually evoked laughter, whether witty or not. 

“There’s a French saying,” Grey said quietly, as 
Milo finished his break, “I think it is attributed to 
La Bruy ere: C’est wne grande mis ere que de n’avoir 
pas assez d’esprit pour bien parler t ni assez de juge - 
ment pour se taire .” 

“Which means, oh, my French scholar—what?” Bob¬ 
bie Tolhurst asked. 

“That it is a misfortune not to have enough sense 
to talk intelligently, nor tact enough to remain silent, 
that is a free translation.” 

Milo coloured to the roots of his black hair. 

“As free as some people’s tongues,” he rapped out. 
“I wonder what a pretty girl would look like in the 
moonlight, Grey, with her beautiful hair hanging down 
her back—provided, of course, she wore no wig?” 

There was a moment’s silence. The watching mem¬ 
bers peered furtively at Grey. There appeared to be 


170 THREE KNOTS 

some hidden allusion in Milo’s words. Grey broke the 
tension. 

“You remind me of some women, Octavius Milo,’’ 
he said, lighting a cigar. 

“Indeed? In what way?” 

“You speak without reflecting. You should do what 
a looking-glass does.” 

“I don’t follow you.” 

“Reflect without speaking.” 

“Really your mental gymnastics and happy—or are 
they unhappy?—epigrams are altogether above my 
low plane of intelligence,” Milo answered, making a 
miss-cue. “They are better adapted to the other sex 
and their quick perception of the trivial. But no doubt 
you have found that out. You must have many oppor¬ 
tunities, these fine nights.” 

“Curse you two!” Tolhurst exclaimed. “You put me 
off my game with your interchange of veiled affronts. 
Have a drink both of you, and stop it. Milo, you 
are playing with the wrong ball.” 

The interruption served its purpose. But that night 
Grey and Milo did not speak to each other again. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


a woman’s deductions 

In some respects Irene Baxter and Yvonne resembled 
each other. Both were women of strong character; 
both women of temperament; both had passionate na¬ 
tures, which they kept usually under restraint; both 
had begun life in humble circumstances and worked 
their way up by determination, industry and hard 
work; and both being unconventional and having seen 
many sides of life, were tolerant and broad-minded. 

Thus it was not surprising that at their first meet¬ 
ing they should have been attracted to each other, and 
that a warm friendship should quickly have grown 
up between them. A few days after the incidents 
recorded in the last chapter, they were together in 
Exeter, when Yvonne suddenly said : 

“Your work must be extraordinarily interesting, 
Irene. I should love to try my hand at it, if I had 
the intelligence.” 

Irene Baxter smiled. 

“You don’t need intelligence, dear,” she answered, 
“so much as quick perception and what I can describe 
only as ‘low cunning.’ Yes, the work is interesting, but 
you make no friends, or at least very few. One’s ac¬ 
quaintances are for the most part suspicious and mis¬ 
trustful.” 

“I should not mind that a bit; I should have no 
171 


172 


THREE KNOTS 


use for such friends. You have one true friend, at 
any rate—Gerald Grey.” 

Irene turned quickly. Her eyes shone. 

“What makes you say that? Who has told you so? 
Has he spoken to you about me?” 

“Of course not. Nobody has. But I have eyes, and 
possibly some measure of what you have just called 
‘quick perception.’ Does he want to marry you?” 

“No.” 

“You mean he has not asked you. But he will. 
My dear, Gerald is falling in love with you as fast as 
ever he can. Naturally he has not' completely recovered 
yet from the shock he received last February.” 

“If I could believe that . . . .” 

“Why not believe it? I speak the truth. I am 
older than you, and my knowledge of men is more 
extensive than yours, much more. Perhaps you should 
feel grateful for that. You don’t know what my life 
has been, and I hope you never will. Indeed, in that 
respect we are opposites. I have lived for men all 
my life, or as long as I can remember. You, on the 
contrary, have professed to despise men. They have 
bored you—for that matter they have often bored 
me. Now my whole soul is wrapped up in a man—in 
one man now. After the stormy life I have led, I 
have at last fallen in love, hopelessly, irrevocably. If 
Wal Marner should play me false—oh! but he never 
will. It is curious that you and I should both suddenly 
have had our hearts swept out of us like this, isn’t 
it? And just at the same time. Look, there is Oc¬ 
tavius Milo. How I abhor that man!” 

Milo was coming towards them, along Queen Street. 
As he caught sight of them he looked the other way, 
and crossed the street diagonally. 


A WOMAN’S DEDUCTIONS 


173 


“That was only to be expected,” Yvonne went on 
lightly. “I wonder, Irene, what he knows about that 
cave on Haldon?” 

“Do you think he knows much?” 

“I do. Have you discovered anything fresh lately?” 

“Nothing. Oh, Yvonne, I am so depressed at my 
failure to solve the Holcombe mystery. You can have 
no idea how disappointed I am.” 

“You may solve that mystery yet, and perhaps I 
can help you.” 

“Do you really think you can?” her companion ex¬ 
claimed quickly. 

“Yes. But now, first, with regard to that cave. 
There are one or two people you tell me you suspect 
of knowing something about the murder of Ella Ash- 
combe. One of them is the old man who lives mostly 
in Holcombe, and frequents the coast generally, the 
old man you told me about who was in the Holcombe 
inn both nights you were there, and was evidently 
disconcerted when the murder and the cave were men¬ 
tioned. You told me the other men there that night 
implied that the old man in corduroys knew something 
of the murder. 

“That old man, you said, seemed to have been a 
sailor during some period of his life, and to have 
been in many lands. You yourself heard him talking 
about Newfoundland twice; incidentally I danced once 
in St. John’s, and was hissed off the stage,” she gave 
a little laugh. “I was shown many things of inter¬ 
est there, among others the curious little natural caves 
that some of the natives Hake over’ and dwell in. In 
every one of those caves I visited there were peculiar 
shelves hewn in the sides, just like those in the Haldon 
cave. Also each had a hole bored in the roof, to act as 


174 


THREE KNOTS 


a chimney when they lit a fire inside. There was the 
same sort of hole in the roof of the Haldon cave, if 
you remember. 5 ’ 

“Yes, I remember it . 55 

“Then, the only candles used in Newfoundland were 
common tallow candles, dips; at least that was so 
each time I was there. Do you remember the tallow 
candles Gerald Grey picked up in the cave? And didn’t 
you find a bit of tallow candle among the rubbish in 
Mrs. Ashcombe’s garden just after the murder, though 
the maid, Charlotte, declared to you that no dips had 
ever come into Gareth Cottage? And was not a bit 
of tallow candle found in the bundle discovered in a 
field near Gareth Cottage ? 55 

“Yes, yes, go on . 55 

“So much for that. It may all be coincidence, but 
on the other hand .... 

“Next we come to the fire. You were ‘Frank Raw¬ 
lins’ then,” she smiled, “and a very charming boy you 
made, dear. I almost fell in love with you myself, 
and-” 

“Oh, keep to the point, Yvonne. As Mr. Marner 
says, ‘Cut the rough stuff . 5 What about the fire ?” 

“You remember raking about the debris, and finding 
a brass crucifix. Polly took it from you and showed 
it to her mother. It was obvious to you, as it was to 
me, that neither Mrs. Ashcombe nor Polly had ever 
seen that crucifix before. Then to whom had it 
belonged? 

“Mrs. Ashcombe is not a religious woman. I should 
say she is the opposite. So she would not have been 
likely to possess a crucifix. On our way home that day 
I asked Wal Marner—I still call him Wal Marner— 
to get it from Mrs. Ashcombe, which he did. She made 



A WOMAN’S DEDUCTIONS 


175 


him a present of it. When I came to examine it, I 
found that, as I had half-expected, it was a replica 
of the brass crucifixes sold in St. John’s, Newfound¬ 
land, where everybody is religious—that is why they 
hissed my dance. I believe that crucifix had been in 
the ‘mysterious’ room which the fire revealed, and I 
believe the owner of it was either a native of New¬ 
foundland or had been in Newfoundland. Did you 
ever notice that baby seal, a white furry stuffed thing, 
in Mrs. Ashcombe’s sitting-room?” 

“I often noticed it. Mrs. Ashcombe told me it had 
been given to her; but she didn’t say by whom.” 

“That seal, I am positive, came from Newfound¬ 
land. I have one just like it, which was given to me 
in St. John’s. Everybody who goes to Newfoundland 
brings home a stuffed baby seal, just as people who go 
to Heidelberg, or to Diisseldorf, bring back German 
pipes, and painted beer-mugs with inscriptions on them, 
in the same way that people who go to Interlaken 
bring home cuckoo-clocks. My dear Irene,” she ended, 
laughing, “don’t you think my ‘quick perception’ is 
wonderful, and that I have ‘low cunning’ enough to 
go into partnership with you?” 

Irene Baxter did not answer. In point of fact she 
had not heard her friend’s closing words. She was 
thinking of what Yvonne had just been saying. Yes, 
why, yes, all these points, happenings, coincidences, or 
whatever they might be, fitted in with some of her own 
discoveries and inferences. The missing links were after 
all being recovered one by one. 

It was as well, perhaps, for his own peace of mind, 
that Octavius Milo remained in ignorance of this con¬ 
versation. After deliberately avoiding Yvonne and 


176 


THREE KNOTS 


her companion, by crossing the street, he had gone 
back to his office, where a client was to meet him by 
appointment at three o’clock. 

The young lawyer seemed in an irritable mood. 
Apparently he had something on his mind. Indeed, 
for some time past his clerks had noticed the change 
that had come over him, and had secretly commented 
upon it. He had always kept them well up to their 
work, but until recently they had never had occasion 
to complain of his being either unjust or irrational. 
Now, all at once, he seemed to have become both. The 
change, had they known it, dated from that night when 
in the lanes between Holcombe and Shadcombe he 
had come upon Grey and Irene Baxter. 

Almost daily his irritability increased. His confi¬ 
dential clerk, a most deserving fellow in the sense of 
being a devoted and faithful tool, admitted, when he 
went home in the evening to his wife and family, that 
“the chief” seemed very odd of late, and that whereas 
formerly the work in the office had run on ball-bearings, 
it now took him all his time to please his employer at 
all. Try as he would, the clerk said, he could not 
account for the change, or assign any possible cause 
for it. 

Alone in his office at the big writing-table on which, 
neatly arranged, were rows of folded documents, bound 
round with pink tape, Milo sat mechanically toying 
with a pen. His thoughts were not of his work: nor 
had his heart been in it for several weeks past. The 
sight of Yvonne and Irene Baxter walking together 
along Queen Street that afternoon had set him think¬ 
ing again of these two women. He knew now that 
“Frank Rawlins” was in reality Irene Baxter, of Bax¬ 
ter’s Agency, and he had concluded that her reason for 


A WOMAN’S DEDUCTIONS 


177 


masquerading as a man had been with a view to making 
discoveries in connection with the Holcombe Mystery. 
But even if she were a detective, why had she scraped 
acquaintance with him that time at an hotel in Shrews¬ 
bury, and wormed herself into his confidence, indeed 
temporarily into his affection? That was one of sev¬ 
eral questions that puzzled as well as disconcerted 
him. Did she entertain a suspicion that he knew any¬ 
thing about Ella Ashcombe’s murder? It seemed 
hardly likely, and yet .... 

She knew a great deal about him and about some of 
his “operations,” far too much for his peace of mind, 
he reflected. And then, how did she stand in relation 
to Grey? He knew that Grey had retained her services 
in regard to the Holcombe Mystery, but apparently he 
had now other intentions concerning her. And Grey 
disliked him. He knew that. He believed that he dis¬ 
liked him intensely. Well, if that were so, was it not 
more than likely that Grey was employing Irene to 
make certain discoveries in relation to himself, and 
to his own past life? 

Then he thought of his visit to Baxter’s Agency, in 
Oxford Street, and of the courteous, elderly gentleman 
who had received him there. Who could that old man 
be? Was he Irene’s father? Now he came to think 
of it, he had borne a sort of slight resemblance to 
Irene, very faint, but still .... 

He looked up at the clock. It was nearly half¬ 
past three, and his client had not arrived. He went 
on thinking of the women, now more especially of 
Yvonne. He disliked the intimacy which had sprung 
up between the two. He mistrusted it. Yvonne, too, 
knew so much about him. And then he had wronged 
her, wronged her most abominably. 


178 


THREE KNOTS 


He blotted out these reflections. They were not 
pleasant, and they stirred the last remnants of con¬ 
science he possessed. Supposing that Yvonne had told 
Irene of what had happened—of the way he had twice 
jockeyed her out of large sums of money .... 

No, he doubted her having told that to Irene. She 
would, by doing so, have compromised herself, and 
then .... 

The clerk entered with some letters. As he laid 
them on the table, he drew Milo’s attention to one, which 
was registered. Then he left the room. 

Milo took up the registered letter and glanced at it 
thoughtfully. The handwriting on the envelope was 
unknown to him. Then he tore it open. 

As he read its contents, an expression of amazement 
crept into his face. Presently he grew rather pale. 
Then, pulling himself suddenly together, he sprang 
up with an oath. 

He read the letter carefully through again. A few 
moments later he snatched up the telephone transmitter 


CHAPTER XIX 


CONCERNS CERTAIN USURERS 

Messrs. Mosse & Evelburg were an eminently respect¬ 
able firm of bill discounters, whose offices nestled in a 
court under the shadow of St. Paul’s. There was noth¬ 
ing pretentious about their establishment. Nor was 
there about their advertisements. They posed as “Two 
gentlemen with considerable private means” whose 
philanthropic hearts prompted them to “advance sums 
of £100, and upward, to persons of social standing” 
who might find themselves “temporarily embarrassed.” 
They had no desire to reap a rich harvest, or any 
harvest to speak of, through making these advances. 
They knew themselves what it was to be hard-up. They 
had suffered, and they wished to prevent others from 
suffering in the same way. Such philanthropy might 
be unusual. Undoubtedly it was. But as every rule 
has its exception, so were they the exception to the 
generality of mankind. 

At least so their advertisement implied. 

When, however, those “persons of social standing,” 
for whom they professed to cater, applied to them for 
relief from their “temporary embarrassment,” they 
found that, before relief could be obtained, certain little 
formalities had to be completed which put a rather 
different complexion upon the purported liberality of 
their would-be benefactors. 

And so it happened that when Octavius Milo read 
179 


180 


THREE KNOTS 


the contents of his registered letter on that beautiful 
autumn afternoon, he experienced a feeling of both 
surprise and annoyance. For the letter ran as follows: 

“Sir, —We hold three bills, endorsed by you, for 
sums of £3,000, £7,000, and £2,000 respectively, 
which upon presentation have not been met. We 
would, therefore, ask you to please remit to us at 
once the sum of £15,500 to cover principal and 
interest. Should you be desirous of renewing, 
we shall of course be pleased to meet you on 
mutually satisfactory terms. There is no need 
for us to mention in a letter the name of the 
individual to whom these advances were made. 

“Your obedient servants, 

“Mosse & Evelburg.” 

The hour that elapsed before the call could be got 
through to London, Milo spent in furious speculation as 
to who could have played this trick upon him, if it were 
a trick; if it were not, then how could Mosse and Evel- 
burg have come to make such a gross mistake. He knew 
the firm by name, through seeing their advertisements 
in the newspapers ; but to suppose he would be so asinine 
as to back a bill, let alone three bills, even for his best 
friend .... 

But whose bills could they be? That point also puz¬ 
zled him. And were they drawn in favour of a man, or 
of a woman? So far as he could recollect he had never 
in his life backed a bill for anybody. 

He was endeavouring to solve several such problems 
simultaneously, when his telephone bell rang: 

“Your London trunk call is through,” a toneless 
voice said. 


CONCERNS CERTAIN USURERS 181 


He picked up the receiver. 

“Mosse & Evelburg speaking. Who are you?” 

“Octavius Milo. I am speaking from Exeter. I have 
just received a letter from you, dated yesterday.” 

“Oh, ah! yes. Veil, do you vish to renew, Mr. Milo? 
Ve shall be quite prepared to meet your convenience in 
every vay ve can. Perhaps you could give us a 
call—eh?” 

Milo was boiling, but he kept himself in check. 

“I have no wish to do anything of the sort,” he an¬ 
swered. “In fact, I repudiate your bills entirely. I 
have never in my life backed a bill; if I did so I certainly 
should not be fool enough to back one for anybody 
applying to a money-lender. You have made some 
big mistake. You have mixed me up with someone 
else.” 

He caught the sound of a fat chuckle at the other end 
of the line. 

“No mistake—no mistake, I assure you, Mr. Milo 
Ve have letters from you in your own handwriting, and 
signed by you yourself. Oh, no, there is no mistake, Mr. 
Milo. You had better come and see us, and ve vill see 
vot ve can do for you. I am sure ve can propose terms 
vich vill command your satisfaction? Ven can you gif 
us a call?” 

Indignant and exasperated though he felt, Milo 
deemed it advisable to humour them. Also he was 
curious to see the bills. He had not endorsed them, of 
course, but he wondered whose they were, also who his 
namesake might be. 

“I will run up to-morrow morning,” he said, “and 
be with you at three o’clock.” 

Punctually at three he entered the loan office, and 
some minutes later was shown into Mr. Evelburg’s room. 


182 


THREE KNOTS 


The Jew, a sleek creature with an unusually oily 
manner, rose as he entered. 

“Very pleased to see you, Mr. Milo, I am sure,” he 
said, and rolled forward a heavily upholstered chair. 
“Von’t you sit down? Here, let me offer you a cigar,” 
and he produced a box. 

But Milo would neither sit down nor accept the cigar. 

“I want to see those bills,” he said curtly. 

“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Milo.” 

Mr. Evelburg went over to his safe, which he un¬ 
locked. He was a short, round-legged, pot-bellied little 
man, with Semitic features and a shiny bald head. He 
walked with a waddle rather like a duck’s. Watching 
him, Milo was struck by his unprepossessing person¬ 
ality. He found himself wondering if Mosse was at all 
like Evelburg. 

“Here they are, Mr. Milo,” and returning with them, 
he held them flattened out upon the table. 

Milo bent over and examined the bills. Mr. Evelburg 
would not let him touch them; they were too precious. 
Each was in order, and each bore the signature of Wal 
Marner, backed by Octavius Milo in his own hand¬ 
writing. 

This was certainly a surprise. 

Milo bent lower still. Yes, the signature exactly 
resembled his. And yet he had never signed the bills. 

“Those signatures are forgeries,” he said calmly, 
after a short pause. “I have never seen those bills 
before. I had never heard of them until yesterday, 
when I got your letter.” 

“Oh, come, come, Mr. Milo,” the fat little Jew ex¬ 
claimed, with a low chuckle. “Don’t say that, don’t. 
Look, there were two vitnesses to your signature,” and 
he pointed to two other names upon the bills. “Come, 


CONCERNS CERTAIN USURERS 183 


let us talk it over quietly. Do haf a cigar? No? Veil, 
now, listen to the suggestion I haf to make.” 

“I don’t want your suggestion or anybody else’s,” 
Milo answered irritably. “I say the signatures are 
forgeries, and they are. The signature resembles mine, 
but it is not mine. That I shall presently prove.” 

“Oh ? And how ?” 

Mr. Evelburg’s tone and expression had changed 
suddenly. He had discarded the velvet glove in favour 
of the bullying attitude. 

“That you will see, later. Meanwhile I repudiate 
those bills and refuse to meet them.” 

Mr. Evelburg shrugged his shoulders. 

“As you vill, Mr. Milo,” he said with an open sneer. 
“You know the procedure that vill follow. You are a 
lawyer.” 

“You said you had letters in my handwriting,” Milo 
exclaimed suddenly. “May I see them?” 

“Vy yes, surely.” 

He produced from a drawer some letters tied up in a 
packet. After untying the packet he handed it to Milo. 

There were nine letters, all in his own handwriting 
and bearing his own signature. All were short letters. 
Some were replies to letters that had apparently been 
written to him by Mosse and Evelburg and addressed 
“Care of Wal Marner, Esq.,” at hotels in various towns 
in California—Los Angeles, Colorado, Sacramento, and 
San Francisco. The letters alleged to have been written 
by him were written on the headed note-paper of hotels 
in those towns. He looked at the dates. The letters 
had all been written during the time he had been with 
Marner in those cities, and all referred to the bills 
which, according to the letters apparently in his hand¬ 
writing, he had expressed willingness to back. 


184s 


THREE KNOTS 


A cold sweat broke out upon him. He saw now the 
trick the scoundrel, Marner, had played upon him. It 
would be impossible for him to prove an alibi, seeing 
that all the time he had actually been with Marner. 
Nor would it be advisable for him to try to show up 
Marner and prove him a forger, because Marner had 
enough evidence metaphorically to hang him; enough, 
at any rate, to reveal him as a swindler. In a flash he 
saw that each check-mated the other, just as he and 
Irene Baxter had check-mated each other that night in 
the lanes between Holcombe and Shadcombe. Oh, what 
a fool he had been to associate himself with a man of 
Marner’s principles and evil repute! The two had to¬ 
gether engineered some clever and profitable financial 
“ramps,” and in doing so each had shown himself to 
the other in his true light and had, at the same time, 
wittingly placed himself in the other’s power. 

“Veil, Mr. Milo, vot haf you to say now? You don’t 
any more pretend the signatures on the bills are not 
yours, eh ?” 

The Jew’s voice jarred upon the young man. 

“You must give me time to think the matter over,” 
he answered in a less arrogant tone. 

“I gif you von day more.” 

“Ridiculous! I must have a fortnight, or at least a 
week.” 

Again the money-lender shrugged his shoulders. 

“Impossible. The bills vill be overdue. Vy not renew 
them? Come, let us do it now.” 

For an instant Milo entertained the idea. The next 
moment he answered: 

“Whatever may happen, I shall never do that.” 

“Very goot. By twelve noon next Friday they must 
be met, all of them, you understand?” 


CONCERNS CERTAIN USURERS 185 


“Yes, I understand.” 

Blindly he picked up his hat and went out into the 
street. As he looked up at St. Paul’s the thought came 
to him: Why not clamber up to the top—he had been 
up St. Paul’s once—and throw himself off, and so finish 
it all? 

But whatever else he might be, Milo was no coward. 
No, he would face it all, he must face it all. He felt 
glad just then that he had never married, that if eventu¬ 
ally disgrace and public odium should be his lot, none 
but he would suffer. But fifteen thousand pounds! He 
could get it, of course, but at what a sacrifice. True, 
there was his clients’ money—some of his clients were 
very rich—and there were such things as rash 
investments. 

Investments, however, other than betting transac¬ 
tions, do not yield a big profit in a few hours as a rule, 
and he needed the money at once. Then the thought 
came to him—why not risk his luck upon the Turf? 
Upon the few occasions when he had done so, merely 
for amusement, he had been fortunate. And, why, yes, 
there was a big meeting on to-morrow. . . . He knew 
plenty of commission agents .... he could get the 
money on easily .... and if luck should favour him, 
he would be able on the Monday to pay the blood¬ 
suckers their principal and interest. 

He thought of Marner, and his blood boiled. He 
thought of Irene Baxter, of Yvonne, of Gerald Grey— 
oh, how he hated the lot! So deep was his detestation of 
them at that moment that he conceived them all to be 
in league against him. Marner had swindled him in the 
most cold and calculating way conceivable, professing 
all the while to be his partner in financial ventures, and 
his friend, Irene Baxter, had deceived him and gone 


186 THREE KNOTS 

over to Grey, the worst rival he had in his profession. 
And Yvonne .... 

He began to think about Yvonne. She and Marner 
were as thick as thieves, had been for a long time. 
Could she . . . ? was she . . . ? 

His thoughts sped along as he walked quickly down 
Ludgate Hill. Yvonne was a woman without a repu¬ 
tation. Could she, did she, know an}dhing about this 
transaction of Marner’s, and how he had set about it? 
Could she have helped him in any way? He had him¬ 
self robbed Yvonne on three separate occasions; had 
she taken no steps to bring him to book merely 
because . . . ? 

The one thought which might have helped him, never 
once occurred to him, that the letters and his signa¬ 
ture had been forged, not by Wal Marner, but by 
Yvonne following Marner’s directions. 

***** 

“Octavius Milo has by now got his bombshell, I 
guess.” 

Marner, lying back in the long arm-chair in his hotel 
sitting-room, blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and 
shifted his big cigar to the other side of his mouth. 

“What do you mean by ‘bombshell’?” Yvonne asked, 
turning quickly. She was standing at the bay window, 
and had been gazing out at the blue sea, across the oval 
stretch of grass known as The Den. 

“Those bills he backed fell due yesterday.” 

“You mean those I . . . 

“Precisely, those you . . . .” 

Presently his companion began to walk restlessly 
about the room. 


CONCERNS CERTAIN USURERS 187 


“I hated doing that,” she exclaimed suddenly. “You 
can’t think how I hated it.” 

“Did you? I didn’t. You are even with him now, 
my girl. You ought to be glad.” 

“I am glad, and I am not. It seemed such a horrid 
thing to do. Besides, are you sure, are you quite posi¬ 
tive discovery is impossible?” 

“Quite. By now he probably knows who has done 
him down. He must be furious, savage. I expect he 
is thinking of some means of getting back on me. But 
he can’t open his lips, or move a hand. He daren’t. 
I have him by the windpipe.” 

“Still I feel frightened, somehow. The sentence for 
forgery is a long term of imprisonment.” 

“If the forger is discovered—yes-Come over here, 

Yvonne.” 

She came beside the chair. He drew her to him, and 
as she bent over him, he began to smooth her hair. 
Presently he drew her down until her lips wefe pressed 
on his. 

“What a woman you are, Yvonne!” he exclaimed in 
an undertone. “I have never met a woman like you, 
never.” 

“That may perhaps be fortunate,” she answered, 
smiling. 

“Yoi^have all the attributes that appeal to me. You 
are fascinating and faithful. What more could a man 
want ?” 

“You won’t ever ask me to do that sort of thing 
again? Promise me you won’t.” 

“I promise. The past is gone and done with. It was 
chiefly because you told me how the young blackguard 
had swindled you that I decided I would pay him back, 
and in his own coin.” 



188 


THREE KNOTS 


They remained in silence for a little while. They were 
terribly in love. It was the wild love of two strong 
natures meeting for the first time upon the same plane. 

They were all to each other, and always would be, 
and they knew it. Yet, curiously enough from the 
standpoint of the world, which makes a fetish of con¬ 
ventions, marriage had not as yet been spoken of by 
either. They were going to be married, of course. 
Each had thought about it, but for the time marriage, 
in its common acceptance, seemed too prosaic a thing 
to dwell upon. 

Yvonne disengaged herself from her lover’s arms. 

“Have you forgotten,” she said suddenly, “that we 
are lunching with Mrs. Monckton, and going afterwards 
to Teignbridge?” 

“I have not forgotten. I wish I had. I would sooner 
stay alone here with you, Yvonne, much sooner.” 

“And I, too,” she answered. “But I think we ought 
to go. I have a reason, too, for wanting to meet to-day 
the people who will be there. Come.” 

Laughing, she tried to pull him up. He sprang up of 
his own accord, and again folded her in his arms. 

“My darling, my own darling,” he exclaimed. 

Had he known what he was to witness that night at 
Teignbridge, he might even then have hesitated before 
going. 


CHAPTER XX 


AT THE FOOTBRIDGE 

Mrs. Willie Monckton was in great form at her 
luncheon-party that day. As usual, she had gathered 
together from among her large circle of acquaintances 
people who would, as she put it, “hit it off” together. 
In our expressive latter-day slang, there were no “duds” 
among her guests. All seemed to belong, if one may so 
express it, to the same atmosphere. They were a 
cheery, happy, intelligent lot of people, with possibly 
one exception. 

The exception was Mrs. Jacob Mulhall, who in 
Shadcombe was generally regarded as a kind of news 
agency, her “news” being mostly rumours, or informa¬ 
tion based on rumours, for the most part tittle-tattle, 
mainly local and with some sort of sting in it. Why 
she had invited her to this luncheon-party, Mrs. Willie 
herself could not have said. She did not like Mrs. 
Mulhall, and she hated the semi-spiteful aspersions she 
was so fond of casting upon people. Perhaps the real 
reason she had included her was that she wanted to 
amuse her other guests. For Mrs. Mulhall was a source 
of amusement—of sorts. The very acrimony of her 
comments sufficed to ensure that. 

“I invited Mr. Milo, but he was not able to come,” 
the hostess remarked during lunch. “He gave no 
reason. At least he said he had a prior engagement, 
189 


190 


THREE KNOTS 


which I don’t believe. Hasn’t it struck any of you,” 
she went on, “that he has rather changed of late? He 
has become so silent, so subdued; he is almost morose 
sometimes. I believe he has something on his mind.” 

Several of her guests murmured assent, more or less 
out of politeness. Nobody ventured any definite asser¬ 
tion, until Mrs. Jacob Mulhall suddenly cut in in her 
rather rasping voice: 

“Yes, he has something on his mind. And I know 
what it is.” 

At once attention became focussed upon her. 

“And what is it?” Mrs. Willie asked, opening her 
large blue-grey eyes rather wide. “Do tell us.” But 
Mrs. Mulhall tightened her lips, so that they seemed 
to make a straight line across the base of her face. 
It was a trick she had when she wanted to imply that 
she knew more than she meant to say. It did not 
improve her appearance, Mrs. Willie used to say that it 
“made her look like a governess.” 

“I don’t think you ought to say thinks like that if 
you are not prepared to substantiate them,” she re¬ 
marked. She had such a pleasant way of saying things 
which might otherwise have sounded unpleasant, that 
nobody could ever feel annoyed, even those to whom 
such remarks were addressed. 

Mrs. Mulhall smiled coldly. 

“I am always tactful and always discreet,” she 
observed sententiously; whereat several of the guests 
glanced meaningly at each other. Mrs. Willie laughed 
outright. The unconscious humour of the claim ap¬ 
pealed to her. 

“Oh, we know that,” she exclaimed. “Any way Mr. 
Milo seems to me somehow different in his manner 
recently; others, too, have noticed it. You are fortu- 


AT THE FOOTBRIDGE 


191 


nate,” she turned to Mrs. Mulhall, “to be in his 
confidence. I wish some lawyer would make me his 
confidant. Won’t you, Mr. Grey?” 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Grey 
answered, smiling. “Only . . . 

“Yes? Only what?” 

“It would be unprofessional. Ask Vera.” 

Vera Trevor, who was conversing in an undertone 
with Yvonne, caught her name. 

“What is that about me?” she asked quickly, 
looking up. 

“I was telling Mrs. Monckton you might think it 
unprofessional of me if I-” 

“Mr. Grey, do let bygones be bygones,” Vera Trevor 
interrupted sharply, though she was smiling. She had 
flushed slightly, and the heightened colour became her. 

Their hostess deftly turned the conversation, and for 
some time local topics of small interest were talked 
about. Mrs. Ashcombe, noW in half-mourning only, was 
in quite good spirits. Polly seemed prettier than ever. 
At intervals Marner set the whole table in a roar by 
relating some piquant anecdote, some past experience 
of his own. Yvonne, too, was in a gay mood, and 
looked supremely happy. Irene Baxter said little. She 
kept watching each speaker in turn, as though trying 
to fathom his, or her innermost thoughts. But mostly 
she looked at Grey. 

For by now Gerald Grey had become her idol. 
Formerly her soul had centered upon her work. Now 
her work held only a subordinate place in her heart. 
She was deplorably in love, and she knew it. 

Mrs. Jacob Mulhall prattled a good deal, inconse¬ 
quent prattle for the most part, which began gradually 
to bore the other guests. After a while Marner could 



192 


THREE KNOTS 


bear it no longer, and being a rough man, he had less 
consideration for her feelings than the other guests 
appeared to have. 

“Say, Mrs. Mulhall,” he exclaimed suddenly, in his 
resonant, deep voice, “all this fool talk of yours don’t 
amount to much, in my calcuation. You ought to 
travel some to give your notions a pipe-opener and 
let the draught in a bit. Don’t you agree, Mrs. 
Monckton?” 

It was a dreadful way of putting it, but their 
hostess was equal to the occasion. 

“We have not all had your opportunities, I am 
afraid,” she answered with a winning smile. Then, 
feeling that he had treated one of her guests with dis¬ 
courtesy, she gave him a little snub. “Perhaps it is as 
well we are not all like you.” 

Mrs. Mulhall, for her part, said nothing. She was 
not a stupid woman, and on the instant she saw her 
attitude of mind reflected. Yes, her tattle was largely 
“fool talk,” as he had so expressively put it. Oddly 
enough, she felt in no way annoyed. In future she 
woud “give her notions a pipe-opener.” 

They spent the afternoon, until tea-time, in roaming 
about the beautiful garden and admiring the pictur¬ 
esque landscape of Shadcombe Harbour with its fishing 
craft, backed by the red cliff of the outstanding Ness. 

After tea they set out in three cars for Teignbridge. 

Teinbridge, at the time this story opens, was the 
oldest club of its sort in Devonshire. The cricket 
ground lay between the village of Kingsteignton and 
the town of Newton Abbot, about six miles from Shad¬ 
combe. The river Teign, here a narrow stream, formed 
the boundary of the cricket-field upon one side. The 


AT THE FOOTBRIDGE 193 

pavilion, a thatched bungalow, with a balcony and 
pergola, was said to date back over a century. 

In early Victorian times, Teinbridge Cricket Club 
was perhaps the most exclusive club in Devon. Even 
fifty years ago only County families were considered 
eligible for membership. Each member was entitled 
to introduce to the club, as his guests, two or three 
friends, preferably ladies. The members who came in 
the morning used to bring each a hamper of provisions, 
all of which were pooled, and then a big lunch was laid 
out, which lasted about two hours, and was followed by 
speeches. Towards six o’clock, dancing members and 
their friends would begin to arrive, and at seven o’clock 
dancing would begin in the pavilion, and be kept up 
until the small hours of next day. 

Between the dances the dancers used to roam out 
across the cricket field and wander about the meadows 
beside the river. Some who did not dance would begin 
their roamings in the starlight quite early in the eve¬ 
ning, and perhaps not reappear in the pavilion until 
the National Anthem was being played. They were 
delightful enough, those evenings at Teignbridge, given 
fine, warm weather, and probably as many hearts were 
lost out there in the gloaming from first to last, during 
the generations the club flourished, as in any ball-room 
in the West Country. 

But to-day these joys are gone for ever. Long grass 
grows upon the cricket-field. The meadows which sur¬ 
round it have become a wilderness. The thatched 
pavilion is a ruin through which the bleak winds of 
winter whistle shrilly. Only the silent river remains, 
and it no longer hears under the star-lit canopy on 
balmy summer nights, love whispering to love; it no 
longer sees love shining from glistening eyes, or wit- 


194 


THREE KNOTS 


nesses those stolen kisses which set pulses beating and 
hearts throbbing in the days “when all the world was 
young, lad.” 

Miss Baily’s band, well known some years ago 
throughout the length and breadth of South Devon, 
was playing a lilting waltz. Shafts of light shone out 
from the open door and the little square windows, cut¬ 
ting yellow streaks across the cricket ground and 
gradually fading into nothingness in the darkness to¬ 
wards the river. Here and there, beside the stream, 
voices could be heard conversing in subdued tones. 

“Is that you, Mr. Marner?” 

Two figures were approaching slowly through the 
gloom. Now they were close to where Marner stood 
with Yvonne. 

“Yes, Miss Baxter,” he answered quickly, straighten¬ 
ing himself. “Where have you two been all the evening, 
I wonder?” and he laughed. 

“Why, the other side of the stream. There is a little 
wooden bridge leads over it, some way further up. 
There is nobody the other side, and it’s so lovely there. 
Shall we show it to you?” 

She led the way with Gerald Grey, along the river 
bank. The moon, which had appeared fitfully, now 
shone out, revealing couples wandering aimlessly, or 
seated together upon chairs taken from the pavilion. 
In the moonlight the flowing river became a stream of 
diamonds. From the distance the strains of the lilting 
waltz still reached them. On the still night air the 
music was strangely soft. 

“Here is the bridge, Yvonne,” Irene said. “Shall we 
go across?” 

It was a narrow footbridge with a rough hand-rail 
on either side, and a stile at the further end. 


AT THE FOOTBRIDGE 


195 


As Irene Baxter had said, the place was desolate 
enough. An owl floated silently from a tall tree and 
swept past them like some winged phantom. The place 
was studded with patches of yellow gorse. It was an 
ideal spot for lovers. And Marner and Yvonne, as 
well as Irene Baxter and Gerald Grey, began uncon¬ 
sciously to feel the spell and the influence of their 
surroundings. 

Presently they gradually grew silent. The moon had 
disappeared again, and the sky was filled with stars. 
Irene and Gerald had wandered by a by-path, and soon 
became lost to sight. 

“How beautiful it is here,” Yvonne murmured almost 
inaudibly. “Oh, how heavenly all this is after the lights 
and the rattle of the big cities I have lived in all my life. 
I should like to stay here forever. I should like always 
to be just as we are now, you and I together, in this 
strange darkness and this delightful atmosphere. Don’t 
the surroundings affect you, dear?” 

She felt the pressure of' her lover’s arm upon her own. 
But he did not speak. She looked up at him. She 
could discern his face in the darkness, but could not 
see its expression. 

“Hark! What was that?” 

Yvonne stopped abruptly. 

“Didn’t you hear a cry ?” she asked. 

“Yes, in that direction,” he pointed up the river. 

“Listen.” 

They listened intently, but the cry was not repeated. 

Presently she nestled closer to him. 

“I feel nervous, somehow,” she said in a lower voice. 
“That cry has upset me. I wonder who it was. What 
time is it now?” 

Marner looked at his watch. 


196 


THREE KNOTS 


“Nearly midnight,” he said. 

Suddenly he shouted. 

“Grey.” 

From the woods across the meadows and far away 
upon the hills a mocking voice shouted back at him: 
“Grey—Grey—yaye—aye—aye . .. . .” 

Several times he called, but only the echoes answered. 

“Strange,” he said. “They can’t be far away.” 

“They may want to be alone,” she said thoughtfully. 

Mamer did not answer. 

On and on they roamed. How far they walked they 
had no idea. At intervals they talked in subdued tones 
of their past, and of the future as they hoped it would 
be, and as they meant to make it. There were passages 
in the lives of both which they had no wish to recall. 

“You told me once,” Marner said suddenly, inconse- 
quently, “you had a collection of letters that have been 
written to you by strangers while you have been on 
your tours over the world. Will you show them to me 
some day ? I should like to see them.” 

“Of course you can read them if you think they would 
interest you,” she answered. “Many were written 
obviously by very young men, so I forgive the writers. 
Probably they knew no better. But some were evidently 
from men of the world, whose impertinence was 
colossal.” 

“Did you answer the letters?” 

“Very few. And those I afterwards had reason to 
regret answering. Of course I had proposals of mar¬ 
riage in plenty. But men did not really appeal to me, 
though I lived so much for them. Until now my truest 
friends have all been women. You think that strange? 
Perhaps you don’t know that a highly-finished dancer 
usually appeals more to women than to men. Men see 


AT THE FOOTBRIDGE 


197 


only the material side of such a performance. Women 
are attracted by its artistic perfection. I have had 
letters from women too, many letters. I usually an¬ 
swered those. But you shall see them all if you care to.” 

They had difficulty in finding the bridge again. The 
stile, they had not noticed, was almost hidden by furze 
bushes. Again the moon was shining. For some min¬ 
utes they stood mid-way across the bridge, gazing down 
into the water. The stream was shallow here, and the 
pebbles upon its bed could be made out quite distinctly. 
They were looking down the river. Now and again a 
trout would dart like an arrow down the current. No 
sound was audible but the music in the distance. 

Suddenly Yvonne gave a little gasp. An instant 
later she stood clutching Manner’s arm tightly with 
both hands. 

“Look! Look!” she exclaimed in a terrified voice. 
“Oh how dreadful!” 

Marner leant across her, and peered down at the 
water into which she was now staring with wide-open, 
horrified eyes. Along the bed of the river something 
was slowly rolling. Forced onward by the current, it 
turned heavily over and over. It was the body of a 
man. The face was discoloured. The arms lay flat 
against the body’s sides. They seemed to be bound or 
pinned there. 

Again it rolled over; and again, and again. And 
every time it did so, its outline grew gradually fainter. 
In a minute the Thing had disappeared, and once more 
on the river’s bed only pebbles could be seen. 


CHAPTER XXI 


WAS IT A CLUE? 

If you leave a certain village, near London, by the main 
road, you will come to a gate on the left side, about a 
mile out. There is nothing particularly striking or 
unusual about this gate. The gravelled path on to 
which it opens looks as though it might lead up to one 
of the rather ostentatious stucco buildings which are 
plentiful in that district. 

In point of fact, the place to which the gravelled path 
leads is a charming old farm-house. True, the house 
to-day hardly resembles the sort of farm-house we 
conjure up in our imagination. Its interior has been 
renovated and made habitable and extremely comfort¬ 
able. Only the rafters of black oak across the ceilings 
remain to remind you of the house’s origin, also the old 
oaken staircase. Hidden away at the back is an ideal 
old Dutch garden. Its maze of paths is carpeted with 
moss, soft to the tread, delightful to walk upon. There 
are quaint, lichen-grown stone seats, and little natural 
arbours, and there is a sundial that must have stood 
there for generations unnumbered. 

A pretty woman, wife of an American financier, and 
herself a daughter of the Stars and Stripes, sat before 
the fire in the drawing-room, reading. It was a wet, 
cheerless afternoon in mid-October, and the outdoor 
aspect was anything but alluring. 

198 


WAS IT A CLUE? 


199 


“Do you remember,” she said suddenly to her com¬ 
panion, turning from her newspaper, “that man we met 
in California when we were staying at Del Monte? A 
man named Marner—Wal Marner they called him.” 

“Quite well,” her friend answered. “Why?” 

“Only because I have come across his name here in 
the newspaper, also the name of the woman we saw 
perform those weird dances in Colorado. You won’t 
have forgotten her. She was billed all over the town in 
enormous letters, if you remember: YVONNE.” 

“I shall never forget her.” 

“What does the newspaper say about them?” 

“It refers to some previous report, apparently, about 
their having seen a dead body rolling along the bed of 
a stream in the middle of the night, somewhere in 
Devonshire.” 

“How very disagreeable. What was the body doing 
there?” 

“It doesn’t say, except that it was rolling. What I 
should like to know is what that man was doing there 
with Yvonne in the middle of the night. That man had 
a lurid reputation, I was told, at Del Monte. He is 
extremely rich, but about the methods he employed to 
become rich there were some curious stories.” 

“There always are about people who grow rich. For 
my part I don’t care how a man gets rich, provided he 
gets rich. That is to say, if the man is a man I am 
interested in.” 

“You were interested in Mr. Marner, if I remember.” 

“I was. He fascinated me. He looked so very) bad—* 
I am sure he was. I like wicked people, don’t you?” 

“Yes—up to a point.” 

“Up to what point?” 

“Well, an out-and-out adventurer wouldn’t appeal to 


200 THREE KNOTS 

me. But a man—‘just bad,’ I much prefer to a man 
6 just good.’ ” 

“So you think that man Marner was more than ‘just 
bad.’ ” 

“I am sure of it. I heard him spoken of in several 
cities. And everybody said the same about him, that 
he was an unscrupulous scoundrel who ought to be in 
jail.” 

“And yet he managed to keep out of jail. How 
adorable! I worship men with brains.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed the other. 

“And if I ever marry, I shall marry a man with a 
giant brain, just as you have done.” 

“Yes, my husband is certainly no fool, but thank 
goodness he isn’t the sort of man you want to marry.” 

“I don’t want to marry.” 

“My dear, none of us wants to marry, until we meet 
the right man. I am speaking now of America. I know 
that here in England there are lots of girls who would 
accept the first man who proposed. I can’t think why. 
Marriage can be Heaven. But it can be the other place, 
too, and it is if you strike the wrong man, believe me. 
Haven’t I seen, haven’t we both seen, hell exemplified in 
matrimony times out of number?” 

Her companion shrugged her shoulders. 

“That is because mutual affinity was lacking,” she 
said. “After all, twin souls may be knocking about the 
world, probably they are, but they don’t always meet. 
But tell me what the newspaper says about Wal 
Marner. It sounds quite exciting, and romantic, too. 
I can imagine any man being decoyed by Yvonne. She 
attracted me enormously. And though her performance 
embarrassed me, she is a wonderful creature, so graceful 
and supple.” 


WAS IT A CLUE? 


201 


Mrs. Jamieson had picked up her newspaper again. 

“It only adds,” she said, “that though the river was 
dragged for a week, down as far as Newton Abbot, the 
body was not found.” 

“He must have dreamed he saw it. He was probably 
intoxicated with the fascinating Yvonne and imagined 
he saw things.” 

“I can’t conceive a man like Wal Marner seeing 
phantoms. I wonder if we shall ever meet him again?” 

“Who, Wal Marner?” 

“Why, certainly,” the girl answered, laughing. “Do 
you remember that funny way he had of tying knots ?” 

“Perfectly, and the box he tied for you.” 

“He told me the natives of New Guinea used that knot 
to strangle their children with. He seemed to have 
travelled everywhere. He said the only other places he 
had seen where that knot was used were Labrador and 
Iceland.” 

“Newfoundland, wasn’t it?” 

“You are right, Newfoundland. Mrs. Jamieson, why 
shouldn’t we go to Devonshire? You have never been 
there.” 

“I am not anxious to go in this weather,” she an¬ 
swered. “Are you as anxious as that to meet Mr. 
Marner once more?” 

“I don’t care in the least if I never see him again. 
No, it only occurred to me that it must, from all 
accounts, be a very beautiful county. Why not go 
there for a fortnight? It is dull here, and your 
husband won’t be back from America this month.” 

The girl was Mrs. Jamieson’s companion. 

After a short silence Mrs. Jamieson said: 

“Would you really like to go, Sadie?” 

“I really should.” 


202 


THREE KNOTS 


“Then we will. I feel we are getting stale here. 
We see so few people when Charles is away.” 

They went to stay in Torquay. The season there 
was just beginning, and they were delighted with 
everything they saw. It may have been the contrast 
presented by the town, its inhabitants and its “atmos¬ 
phere,” to the push and hustle of United States cities 
which principally appealed to them. Everybody in 
Torquay seemed so calm, so contented. The very cab- 
horses had absorbed the sleepiness of the place. At any 
time in the afternoon rows of them could be seen 
standing with bent knees and eyes closed, apparently 
somnolent. Even those with nose-bags showed little sign 
of life. Fleet Street about noon became comparatively 
active. For the rest the place recalled to mind the 
legend of the briar rose. 

The old retired Colonel, member of the Shadcombe 
Club, was spending the afternoon idling on Torquay 
pier. It was one of his few diversions, and one which 
seemed to afford him considerable gratification. Now 
it has already been remarked that the Colonel was an 
epicure. Thus when he saw two well-dressed women 
coming along the pier toward him, he pulled himself 
together, hitched up the knees of his trousers, gave his 
moustache an extra twist, and metaphorically “cleared 
for action.” 

As they approached he guessed their nationality. 
There was a freedom in their way of talking, an inde¬ 
pendence in their very walk, which could not be 
mistaken. He was wondering if by some means he could 
manage to scrape acquaintance, when the ladies saved 
him the trouble. 


WAS IT A CLUE? 


203 


“Can you tell us,” one of them asked as they came up, 
“if the ‘Duchess of Devon’ excursion steamer calls here 
this afternoon?” 

“The steamer stopped running last month,” he 
answered, raising his hat as he spoke. “Where did you 
want to go?” 

“Oh, nowhere in particular. But there’s not much 
to do here,” she laughed, “so we thought a trip round 
the coast would be pleasant.” 

“It would be. It would be very pleasant, extremely 
pleasant—h’m—ha.” 

The Colonel twisted his moustache again. 

“Do you live in Torquay?” they asked some moments 
later. 

“No, in Shadcombe. It is just across the bay. I 
gather you are strangers here?” 

“Sure! We have not been here a week. Would you 
like to show us around ? Have you anything to do ?” 

“Do I look as if I had?” he chuckled. “Indeed I shall 
be charmed, if I may have the er-the-ah privilege?” 

“The privilege is ours,” she laughed. “Then please 
go right ahead, and we’ll follow you right now.” 

The Colonel, thinking they spoke literally, began to 
walk ahead of them. But they quickly called him back, 
laughing at his mistake. 

During tea they talked on all sorts of subjects. The 
Colonel was delighted. This was the most pleasing 
adventure he had experienced for many a year. Like 
many who have never travelled, he was prejudiced 
against Americans, indeed against all people other than 
our own. The Americans he had come across before 
had been for the most part loud-voiced, self-assertive, 
rather aggressive folk. These ladies had only the 
faintest of “American accents,” and he found it rather 


204 


THREE KNOTS 


pleasant. They were neither loud-voiced nor self- 
assertive. On the contrary, they seemed deeply inter¬ 
ested in everything they saw, in all that he told them, 
and they asked endless questions. In addition they 
possessed the saving sense of humour. He was thinking 
how pleasant it would be to invite them over to Shad- 
combe one day, when Mrs. Jamieson suddenly said: 

“Say, I read in a newspaper last week a story of a 
dead body floating down a river, somewhere in this part. 
Did you hear about it?” 

“Hear about it?” he exclaimed, looking up. “I should 
say we did! I know the man who saw it, and the 
woman. They are staying over at Shadcombe and are 
going to take a house there.” 

“My, isn’t that strange, now! We know them too, 
quite well. Marner is the man’s name, and the woman’s 
name is Yvonne. We met them in California. Are they 
married, then?” 

“They are going to be; at least so everybody says,” 
and he laughed. 

“Have they been in Shadcombe long?” Mrs. Jamieson 
asked presently. 

“They come and go. They first came there last sum¬ 
mer-met there accidentally and found they knew each 
other. Who is the man, Marner? He seems a rough 
sort of person.” 

“Oh, he is rough enough,” and they both laughed 
again. “No, I know little about him. He is said to 
be very rich.” 

“He appears to be. In Shadcombe there are all sorts 
of tales about him; but I dare say they are not true.” 

“There were tales about him in America, too. Say, 
I must come over to your town and see them. Tell me 
where they are rooming?” 


WAS IT A CLUE? 


205 


“Where they are-er-what ?” 

“I mean where are they staying?” 

“Oh, at the principal hotel. Perhaps you would both 
give me the pleasure of your company at lunch one 
day” 

“Indeed that is vurry, vurry kind of you. We should 
just love to lunch with the Colonel, shouldn’t we, 
Sadie?” 

“I should adore it.” 

“Then that is settled. I had better make up a little 
party. I will invite Marner and this lady, Miss Yvonne, 
though I don’t know either very well. I will tell them 
I have met you, and that you want to meet them again.” 

“You really are kind.” 

Thus the afternoon wore away pleasantly enough. 
When he left them, the Colonel felt that he made a 
good impression. He glanced at his reflection in an 
advertisement mirror at Torre Station, and decided 
that he looked “nothing like his age.” 

At the club that evening he was full of his exploit. 
“These ladies from America,” he told his cronies, “were 
really most agreeable. So free from affectation, and 
so full of the joie de vivre ,” that was one of his favourite 
phrases. In future he must cultivate Americans more 
than he had done—though where in Shadcombe he 
expected to find Americans to cultivate, he did not 
say. 

“Odd their talking about that affair at Teignbridge,” 
one of his listeners presently remarked. “The body was 
found this morning, floating in the harbour. They 
mention it in to-night’s paper. It has been identified, 
too. It is the body of an old sailor man who lived at 
Holcombe, apparently a local character of sorts; 
though nobody, according to the paper, seems to have 


206 THREE KNOTS 

known much about him. He had been strangled, you 
know.” 

“Strangled?” 

“Yes, by a bit of string tied round his neck, just as 
poor Miss Ashcombe was strangled. The string was 
there still, and they say it had some curious knots in it 
which they hope may serve as some sort of clue to the 
discovery of whoever strangled him. The body had been 
weighted, to make it sink, and they think that is prob¬ 
ably the reason it rolled along the bed of the river 
instead of floating. After some days in the water it 
would naturally come to the surface, unless very heavily 
weighted.” 

“Does Marner know about it?” 

“Yes. He was in here not long ago. Of course he 
was very interested to hear the body had been found, 
particularly as its identity had been established.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


“the round o” 

Marner had bought a house on the Kingston side of 
the river, and was beginning already to make his influ¬ 
ence felt in the neighbourhood, as he had done in almost 
every part of the world he had happened to be in. He 
was always cheery, apparently warm-hearted, and he 
was hospitable and open-handed. Local philanthropic 
institutions, bazaars, football and cricket clubs, funds 
for chronic mendicants, irreclaimable inebriates, homes 
for starving dogs, paralytic cats, and so forth—he con¬ 
tributed to them one and all and with a very lavish 
hand. In consequence there was already talk in the 
district of “approaching” him with a view to tempting 
him to stand as candidate at the next parliamentary 
election. For even in the West Country the men and 
women and electors are only human, and it was there¬ 
fore natural that they should endeavour to further the 
interests of a rich man who in return might further 
their own interests. 

It was early in November, and the date of the opening 
meet of the South Devon Foxhounds had already been 
advertised. It was to be at a place called Round O this 
season, a circular wood, of pine trees on the further side 
of Haldon and about eight miles from Shadcombe, where 
four roads converge. One of these roads leads to Shad¬ 
combe, over the top of Kingston; one goes down a steep 
207 


208 


THREE KNOTS 


hill into Exeter, through various villages; one joins the 
main road from Exeter to Chudleigh, by Exeter race¬ 
course, one of the oldest racecourses in England; and 
one takes you by a circuitous route through many high- 
banked, twisting lanes down into Starcross and Dawlish. 

On the morning of the meet a stream of cars, car¬ 
riages and four-wheeled cabs could be seen making their 
way towards Round O from several different directions. 
On the roads, too, but mostly on the moor itself, were 
groups of riders, some in pink and some in mufti, all 
making for the same point. There was what the sport¬ 
ing journals call “a fair sprinkling of equestriennes” 
among the riders, among whom, coming from the direc¬ 
tion of Shadcombe, were Polly Ashcombe with Bobbie 
Tolhurst in attendance, Vera Trevor, and Mrs. Jamie¬ 
son and her friend. Alone, some way behind them, came 
Wal Marner, mounted on a weight-carrying chestnut 
and riding with a typical Western American seat. 

South Devon is by no means an ideal hunting country. 
The fields are small and cramped, and the banks divid¬ 
ing them are for the most part rotten, or riddled with 
rabbit holes, so that a horse landing upon the top of 
one is apt to come to grief whilst changing his leg before 
jumping off. On the moor itself are many rocks, also 
pitfalls in the shape of “pockets” and deep cart-ruts 
overgrown with heather and therefore hidden, to say 
nothing of the soft, swampy ground, and bogs in the 
valleys which really are dangerous to strangers hunting 
in that country. The hunting, too, is second-rate, due 
to the big woodlands and the bad scenting ground, also 
to the steep hills in nearly every direction. Still, lovers 
of the sport get a good deal of fun, and probably the 
county had produced as many finished horsemen and 
horsewomen as any to be found elsewhere in England. 


“THE ROUND 0” 


209 


The morning was dull, as it usually is in November in 
that part, but its dullness had not damped the ardour 
or the spirits of the little crowd gathered about 
Round O on this particular morning. Wal Maraer 
alone looked subdued. Several of his friends noticed 
this. 

“He seems to be hand in glove with Gerald Grey, 
these times,” Bobbie Tolhurst observed to Vera Trevor, 
as the two sat upon their horses watching him. “He 
bought that animal he is riding from Grey.” 

“That may be the reason he is sad,” his companion 
remarked inconsequently. “How do you like our Amer¬ 
ican friend, Bobbie? She looks uncommonly well on 
horseback.” 

“Which American friend?” he asked dryly. 

“Mrs. Jamieson.” 

“I think she is quite charming; but I don’t know her 
very well.” 

“Which means that if you knew her better you might 
find her less charming.” 

“Compared to you—yes.” 

“Oh!” 

Thus they chatted on, as did the rest of the field, 
until, without warning, hounds began to move off. 

As is usual in that country, for the first two hours 
or more no fox could be found. Cover after cover was 
drawn blank. The thick heather surrounded by the 
racecourse also proved tenantless, and so did Luscombe 
Woods and several likely plantations. 

“Look where we are coming to,” Bobbie Tolhurst 
said presently; he still rode with Vera Trevor. “Do 
you recollect our picnic last summer, or rather Mrs. 
Willie’s picnic? It was over there, by Castle Dyke.” 

“Do I not! By the way, what has become of that 


210 


THREE KNOTS 


nice boy, Frank Rawlins, who was staying with Grey 
at the time? I almost fell in love with him.” 

“You would, of course,” he answered, smiling. “I 
don’t know where he is, I am sure. You had better 
ask Grey.” 

“But he isn’t out to-day.” 

“Are you in such a hurry as all that? Look out!” 

The leading hounds were feathering across the moor, 
near a farm in a hollow known as Rixtail. Suddenly a 
hound whimpered. The pack caught the challenge and 
quickly came together. Now with noses on the ground 
and tails frantically waving, the whole pack flashed 
quickly forward. Half-a-minute later hounds were in 
full cry. 

Away they went over the hill, then out on to the 
moor again. Nobody spoke now. All were galloping 
hard, for the pace was very hot. Along the hard white 
roads tore the elderly and the timid, careless of their 
horses’ feet, making for likely points. To right and 
left horses scrambled over banks. A few turned somer¬ 
saults, but their riders seemed none the worse. And at 
the tail of the pack, sailing away over the short heather, 
Wal Marner and Bobbie Tolhurst could be easily dis¬ 
tinguished. The remainder of the field were half-a-mile 
behind. 

The fox skirted Luton, and then he must have 
doubled, for hounds checked suddenly. Ten minutes 
later they hit the line again, and headed straight for 
Lyndridge Park, skirted its home covers, swept round 
to the left, then, with pace ever increasing, passed up 
through the sloping meadows above Bishopsteignton 
and came out on the moor again, heading now for Lus- 
combe or else for Castle Dyke. 

The mist which had been gathering since lunch-time 


“THE ROUND 0” 


211 


had by now thickened. As hounds tore across the moor 
it rapidly grew denser. Soon the pack was lost to 
sight, though their music could still be heard, and sea 
and landscape were alike blotted out. Heavier and 
heavier the fog became. The music of the pack grew 
fainter, then inaudible. Riders lost sight of and touch 
with one another. Mrs. Jamieson and her friend and 
Polly Ashcombe reached a lane just in time. Vera 
Trevor found herself unexpectedly on the Shadcombe 
to Exeter Road. For a while Tolhurst and Marner 
managed to keep together, though it was safe only to 
trot now, out on the open moor. 

And then, all at once, Tolhurst found himself 
alone. 

The fog had by now become so thick, that he was 
forced to walk his horse. At this pace he rode along 
over the moor for at least a mile, watchful for 
“pockets” in the ground, and for a disused stone quarry 
which lay thereabouts, also all the time on the lookout 
for some familiar landmark that might help him to 
discover his whereabouts. Once or twice he reigned up 
and shouted. But no answer came. 

He hoped that he was riding in a straight line, yet 
realised that he might be making a series of wide circles. 
He had done that once before on Kingston, in a fog 
just like this. 

Suddenly, out of the white fog, a pine wood rose up 
before him. In front lay a broad ditch, beyond the 
ditch a bank. The spot seemed familiar, and yet he 
could not “place” it. There were so many woods he 
knew with a ditch and bank boundary. 

He turned to the right and rode along beside the 
ditch. It ended abruptly after about two hundred 
yards, and the cover became a plantation. The plan- 


212 


THREE KNOTS 


tation was enclosed in wire rabbit-netting, so he struck 
away to the right again along an old foot-track. 

Soon he had lost the track, and was again out on 
the heather. The fog was as thick as ever. He came 
to a steep downward slope and pulled up to consider 
what he had better do. 

All at once he thought he heard voices. He stood up 
in his stirrups, and listened. Yes, somebody was near. 
This time, instead of shouting, he guided his horse 
carefully down the steep slope in the direction of the 
voices. 

His horse’s hoofs made hardly a sound upon the 
heather and the moss-grown peat. Now the voices were 
quite near, though the fog obscured the speakers. 
Hark! Surely he recognised]that voice? He reined up, 
and listened. It was Gerald Grey’s voice. Then he 
heard a woman’s—Irene Baxter’s without a doubt, and 
a rather deep contralto—Why, Miss Yvonne’s, of 
course. 

Something impelled him to remain silent, while his 
horse stood motionless upon the steep slope. Suddenly 
Grey spoke again: 

“How many different impressions have been found 
there to-day?” 

And Irene Baxter’s voice answered: 

“Four.” 

“Do any of them match the boot soles ?” 

“Yes, two sets do. These impressions were not here 
last Tuesday.” 

Then Yvonne spoke: 

“What about the boots Wal Mamer got off the 
body?” 

“The soles of those boots don’t fit these foot-prints, 
but they fit the prints made before the body was recov- 


“THE ROUND 0” 


213 


ered from the river,” Grey said. “Those footprints are 
in the cave still, several close together, to the left and 
far in.” 

“Then that proves our next point,” Irene’s voice said. 
“How about the string?” 

“The knots are the same,” Yvonne answered. ‘I have 
the string here that the man was strangled with; Wal 
Marner got both the string and the boots from the 
police, but has to return both to them to-morrow.” 

“These are the most important clues we have obtained 
as yet,” it was Grey who spoke now. 

“These and the tallow-candle clues,” Irene said. 
“Well, the next thing is to get away from this cave and 
find our way back to the road through this dreadful 
fog. I think I can find the way. Follow me, but keep 
close behind or you will both get lost.” 

An idea occurred to Tolhurst, who by now was 
feeling excited. He turned his horse, and made his way 
up the hill again. By the time he reached the top, he 
found that the fog there had cleared a little. He could 
see the outline of the wood now, that he had skirted" 
some minutes before. He identified it, and at once knew 
where he was. He guessed, too, the road that Grey, 
Irene Baxter and Yvonne would take, if they were now 
going home, as they probably would be. He jogged 
slowly along across the heather until he came to that 
road. There he dismounted and waited. 

Yes, the fog was at last really lifting. He could see 
quite a hundred yards all around him now. After 
waiting about a quarter of an hour he discerned three 
forms coming up the road towards him. Now he saw 
they were two women and a man. He waited for them 
to approach. 


CHAPTER XXin 


WHOSE WAS THE HAND? 

When Grey, Yvonne, and Irene came up, Tolhurst 
expressed surprise at meeting them. His horse had 
gone lame, he said. He thought it had picked up a 
stone, but now fancied it had been pricked in shoeing. 

“We walked up after lunch,” Irene said, looking him 
straight in the eyes, “in the hope of seeing something 
of the hounds. Then this dreadful fog suddenly swept 
over the moor, and we lost ourselves.” 

“Where have you come from now?” he asked care¬ 
lessly, squinting at his cigarette as he lit it. 

“I couldn’t tell you. We must have been in Luscombe 
Wood, I think.” 

Tolhurst peered at her curiously. “What an uncon¬ 
scionable little liar you are,” was his mental comment, 
but he only asked: 

“Are you going home?” 

“Yes, if this fog doesn’t thicken again. We shall 
keep to the road this time.” 

He walked a little way with them, leading his horse. 
Where the road joins the Haldon road from Exeter to 
Shadcombe, they saw a closed car coming slowly along, 
going towards Shadcombe. As it approached, Grey 
recognised Tom, Mrs. Ashcombe’s chauffeur. 

“Have you seen Miss Polly?” the chauffeur asked, 
as he pulled up. “I have been sent out to try to find 
her. Miss Polly was expected home for lunch.” 

214 


WHOSE WAS THE HAND? 


215 


Grey said he had last seen her about two hours before. 
There was no fog then. She was just behind hounds, 
which were then running towards Lyndridge. 

“If you are going back to Shadcombe you had better 
give ns a lift,” he ended. 

The chauffeur opened the door, rather reluctantly, 
Tolhurst thought. They were all surprised to see that 
a police officer was inside. They had not noticed him 
before. 

“Hullo,” Grey said, “having a joy ride, eh?” 

It was the Chief Constable who had given evidence at 
Ella Ashcombe’s inquest. Now he looked embarrassed, 
but he smiled fatuously. 

Tolhurst, riding slowly homeward, when the car had 
gone on ahead, pondered the incident that had just 
occurred. He knew approximately the spot where the 
three had been standing when he heard them talking 
in the fog, and from what they had said he gathered 
they must have been examining some cave. 

But why should they be interested in a cave on the 
moor? He knew of several caves, but they contained 
nothing. From w T hat he had heard Irene and the 
others say, however, there were apparently boot- 
prints in that cave, and they wanted to identify them. 
Possibly there was something there besides bootprints. 
They had talked about a body, evidently the body re¬ 
covered in Shadcombe Harbour. What on earth could 
they know about that ? And why did it interest them ? 
And why had Marner obtained from the police the dead 
man’s boots, also the bit of string with which the man 
had been strangled? Really the whole thing was very 
queer. What made it queerer was the fact that Irene 
Baxter had just lied to him deliberately when he had 
asked where they had been. Why should she have done 


216 


THREE KNOTS 


that? What need had she to conceal the fact that they 
had been visiting a cave? Under normal conditions 
nothing would have been more natural than for one of 
them to say just what they had been doing. Obviously, 
then, they were keeping their movements on the moor 
that afternoon secret for some specific reason. What 
could the reason be? 

All the way home he turned this over in his mind. 
It was not until after he had seen his horse groomed 
and fed, and was making his way on foot to his house, 
that another thought struck him. Wasn’t it rather 
peculiar for a constable, even a Chief Constable, to be 
driving about Haldon in a car? If the constable was 
on duty, it was certainly irregular. And if not on duty, 
would he have been in uniform? He had not seen him 
at the meet in the morning, so the man could not have 
been returning from there. 

Grey and his friends met Mrs. Ashcombe on the steps 
of her hotel as they alighted from the car. They 
“hoped she did not mind their having asked her chauf¬ 
feur to drive them back,” and of course she was glad 
they had done so. She at once suggested their all 
having tea together. Polly had just got back, she said 
and was upstairs changing. 

They had nearly finished tea when Wal Marner 
strolled in. He was in hunting mufti, and his appear¬ 
ance somehow made them think of a Western American 
cow-puncher. 

“This is the first time I’ve hunted with fox-hounds,” 
he said as he seated himself, “and I can’t say I’m struck 
in a heap by the sport. I’ve seen better sport out west, 
far better. It is too much of a sham for me—what you 
call here ‘artificial.’ Give me an Express rifle and come 
with me up into the Rockies and I’ll show you what I 


WHOSE WAS THE HAND? 


217 


call sport. With this fox-hunting game you are messing 
about most of the time doing nothing. It was past one 
o’clock before we found a fox—and then we didn’t see 
him. I don’t believe anybody saw him, not even the 
dogs.’* 

Grey corrected him. 

“Ho, ‘hounds’ are they? Not ‘dogs.’ Say, they 
looked to me mighty like dogs, anyway. What’s the 
difference?” 

He was in better spirits than he had been at the 
meet. All the time he talked, Yvonne’s gaze was fixed 
upon his face. It was easy to see how desperately she 
was in love with him. The talk, however, was mostly 
commonplace. It was not until Marner and Yvonne 
were alone, an hour later, in Marner’s sitting-room, that 
incidents were broached which have a bearing upon the 
story. 

“Well?” Marner asked briskly, as he came out of his 
bedroom, where he had been to change his clothes*. 
“Well? Did you find anything?” 

“We made a few discoveries.” 

“Have you brought the boots back, and the string?” 

“They are in that parcel,” and she pointed to it. 

“Good. And now tell me what you found.” 

She explained all in detail, but it did not amount to 
much. What she told him was little more than what 
Tolhurst had overheard in the fog. 

“Anyway that settles the point about old Joe Soper,” 
Marner said, when she had finished. “And it’s a good 
job he’s dead. I couldn’t have felt safe as long as he 
was alive and knew of my whereabouts. I wondered all 
along if that body we saw rolling down the river that 
night could by any possibility be his. When I told 
Watkins, at the inn, that day in Newton Abbot, I had 


218 


THREE KNOTS 


no use for Joe, and that if Joe died soon someone might 
be the richer, meaning Watkins himself, I hardly 
thought he would take me at my word. Gee! what a 
relief when I read in the paper, that evening at the club, 
that the body found in the harbour was Joe Soper’s. It 
took me all my time not to stand drinks round. ‘A local 
character,’ that’s what the papers called him, and added 
that little was known about him. I guess I knew enough 
about him, and a bit more, and him about me.” 

His companion said nothing. She did not like to 
hear him talk like that. She knew, of course, that there 
would be no possibility of the old sailor-man’s death 
being traced to Marner, even indirectly, but it pained 
her to see how reckless her lover still seemed to be, how 
indifferent to crime. True, from what Marner had told 
her, she knew that as long as Joe Soper lived there 
would ever remain a possibility of his blackmailing him, 
or worse. Therefore she, too, was glad that the man 
was now dead. But she would have felt happier in her 
mind had he died a natural death instead of being put 
out of the world in that terrible manner. 

And as she thought about him again, that awful 
vision she had beheld in the moonlight at the bottom 
of the river, that dreadful Thing rolling over and 
over along the bed of the stream in the stillness of 
the night, rose up again before her. Unconsciously she 
put her hands over her eyes, with a sudden, spasmodic 
gesture. 

Next day Irene Baxter went back to town. From 
first to last she had picked up a good deal of informa¬ 
tion, most of it of a vague sort, bearing indirectly upon 
Ella Ashcombe’s death, and she now wanted to gather 
it all up and try to fit more pieces of the puzzle 
together. Parts of it already fitted, but most of the 


WHOSE WAS THE HAND? 


219 


parts had yet to find their places. Mental jig-saws of 
this description had always appealed to her, and the 
putting of them together formed always the basis of 
her work. Never before, however, had she tackled a 
jig-saw which needed such perseverance and determina¬ 
tion to put complete as the Holcombe Mystery. For 
now she had again determined that she would solve the 
riddle. 

Like a good many other people, she had a habit, 
when she wanted to think long and carefully and without 
interruption, of going into a cinema theatre; cinemas 
were then less numerous than they are now. There, in 
the semi-darkness, with soft music playing, and the 
pictures passing ever before her eyes, she found her 
faculty of mental concentration wonderfully stimulated. 
As some men can think and talk best whilst mechanically 
drawing or making marks with a pencil upon their 
blotting-paper, so she was able to think most logically 
whilst mechanically watching moving pictures. 

The show had just begun when)she made her way into 
the already darkened theatre and stumbled into the 
corner seat allotted to her by the attendant. Pictures 
of Scottish scenery were passing along the screen. For 
some minutes she watched them with interest. Then, 
as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, her mental 
faculties began, as usual, to be affected by her sur¬ 
roundings and the atmosphere they created. 

Soon her train of thought was busy, and she watched 
the pictures only subconsciously. Going right back to 
the week when she had first gone to Shadcombe, and 
had first met Grey, all that she had seen and heard since 
then seemed to grow into her imagination. There were 
those peculiar knots in the string with which Ella Ash- 
combe had been strangled, the marks on the wall outside 


220 


THREE KNOTS 


the window of Ella’s room, made apparently by hob¬ 
nailed boots, the bit of tallow candle she had found 
among the rubbish in the garden, the brass brad she 
had found in the window sash, the Chief Constable’s 
curious embarrassment at the inquest, the hints the 
cook, dismissed by Mrs. Ashcombe, had let drop, and 
the incident during the night when Polly had suddenly 
come face to face with her at the head of the stairs. 
Later came the scraps of indirect clues which she had 
picked up whilst disguised as a yokel in an inn, the 
discovery and then the mysterious disappearance of the 
bundle with the letters, the portrait, and the bit of 
candle in it, which had been, so it was said, tied up with 
tarred twine. She remembered also the murdered girl’s 
injured finger, and the disorder the room had been 
found in. Then there were Mrs. Jacob Mulhall’s tales, 
to which she attached little importance, and remarks 
that Milo had made to her, to which she attached more 
importance, also Milo’s letter from Marner, who was 
then in California, which she had steamed open and read 
and then stuck down again, while she was staying with 
Milo in Torquay. 

She thought of Yvonne’s letter from Marner, re¬ 
ferring to the cave near Castle Dyke, her subsequent 
intimacy with Yvonne, their discovery together of the 
cave on the afternoon of the picnic, when Gerald Grey 
had been with them. After that she thought again of 
the various visits she had paid to the cave, sometimes 
alone, sometimes with Grey or with Yvonne, or both, 
and the several clues the visits had revealed, especially 
on the occasion of their last visit there together in the 
fog some days before. Also, there was that mysterious 
attempt to murder Wal Marner, which had resulted in 
his chauffeur being killed. Not a trace had been dis- 


WHOSE WAS THE HAND? 


221 


covered of the man who had fired those shots—she was 
still convinced the would-be assassin was a man. Then, 
quite recently, came that curious affair of finding in 
iShadcombe Harbour the dead body of Joe Soper, the 
old man she had seen at the inn, each time intoxicated, 
on the nights she had gone there in disguise. 

It could hardly be a coincidence, she reflected, that 
both Ella Ashcombe and Joe Soper should have been 
strangled with a bit of string, each bit with appar¬ 
ently the same peculiar sort of knots tied in it. And 
she had heard Marner speak about peculiar slip-knots 
used by the natives of New Guinea to strangle their 
young. Could these slip-knots have been tied in the 
same way as those used by the New Guinea natives? 
If so ... . 

Linking these and many other scraps together as best 
she could, she finally came to a decision. She believed 
that both Ella Ashcombe and Joe Soper had been 
strangled by men in similar walks of life, and that 
whoever the criminals were, both must at some time or 
other have been in New Guinea, Iceland, or Newfound¬ 
land. Also she believed that both must have been 
acquainted, and that both had at one time been sailors, 
or in some way associated with the sea or with ships. 
Further, she was inclined to think that Marner had 
known them at some time or other, that he knew a good 
deal about both crimes, and that he had told Yvonne a 
good deal of what he knew, but not all. Yvonne, un¬ 
fortunately, in spite of her friendship, was extremely 
secretive on some subjects. Then there was Milo. She 
felt perfectly positive that Milo could throw light upon 
the crime, if he wished to. And why didn’t he wish to? 

Yes, Yvonne knew why he didn’t wish to, and so 
did Marner. She felt she now need no longer discover 


222 


THREE KNOTS 


the actual murderer by trying to discover actual clues. 
There was a little group of people, all of whom had 
some knowledge of the crime yet not one of them was 
in the least suspected—except by herself—of knowing 
anything about it, or being in any way interested in it. 
Also Mrs. Ashcombe’s husband was still as mythical 
as ever. 

Irene Baxter had of course no knowledge of Marner’s 
interview with the old Newfoundlander named Watkins, 
at the inn in Newton Abbot, who had informed him 
of the death of Mrs. Ashcombe’s husband. Nor had she 
the least suspicion that Joe Soper’s death had been the 
outcome of that interview. 

She had been an hour in the picture show when the 
films came to an end, and the lights were slowly turned 
up. During that time she had obtained a better insight 
into what had probably taken place before Ella Ash¬ 
combe’s death than she had ever done before. Also, 
she had more or less decided what her future plans 
must be. Roughly, they consisted in her increasing 
her intimacy with Marner and Yvonne, and getting 
into touch, so far as she could—and in doing this her 
disguises would help her—with seafaring men, espe¬ 
cially men who had visited Newfoundland at frequent 
intervals during the past ten years. That crucifix 
found in the fire might also lead to an important dis¬ 
covery. It must have belonged to Ashcombe, of that 
she felt sure, and whoever he might be, he too had been 
in some way associated with the sea, and with New¬ 
foundland fishermen. Perhaps even Mrs. Jamieson 
might be worth cultivating. Apparently she had seen 
a good deal of Marner in America, and heard a lot 
about him there. Marner, she had already concluded, 
had been an adventurer most of his life, and to a great 


WHOSE WAS THE HAND? 


223 


extent a scoundrel. She must find out who else he 
knew in England—and in Ireland. Within the last 
two months he had been three times to Ireland, remain¬ 
ing there on each occasion at least a week or ten days. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


HARD HIT 

“Most men can make money,” runs an old saying, “but 
it takes a clever man to keep it.” 

Milo, like most men and women of Eurasian extrac¬ 
tion, was of a cool and calculating disposition with a 
substratum of cunning in his nature, a man who never 
forgot an injury or a fancied injury, and who would 
do his best to be avenged, though he might have to 
wait years for the opportunity. 

Yet, like the rest of his race, quick impulsiveness 
smouldered beneath a calm exterior, and there were 
times when he would throw prudence to the winds and 
risk all on a single coup. Thus it came about that, 
after careful deliberation, after his interview with the 
money-lender, he decided upon a mad act—to attempt 
to win the £15,000 he saw he would have to pay by a 
big turf speculation. 

He knew nothing about horses, and had never fol¬ 
lowed form or indulged in any of those abstruse studies 
and calculations by means of which men and women 
of small intelligence, but wide optimism, and with great 
belief in Luck, often endeavour to amass money. Until 
now, indeed, he had held such folk in contempt and 
looked down upon them with a mild feeling of pity, 
believing them to be, in the majority of cases, mentally 
incapable of realising their folly. It was therefore 
224 


HARD HIT 


225 


strange that, in spite of his undoubted ability and 
ordinarily sound judgment, he was now about to em¬ 
bark upon a gamble, which, had anybody else been 
about to do so, he would have considered sheer stupidity. 

Though racing in no way appealed to him, included 
among his acquaintances were a number of racing 
men, some of them clients of his, also men whose pro¬ 
fession it was to earn, or attempt to earn, a liveli¬ 
hood by betting upon horse-races. 

At the office of one of the latter in London, he 
called some days after his visit to the usurer whom he 
had eventually succeeded in inducing to give him a 
full week’s grace. 

“Certainly,” his friend said, when Milo had explained 
to him what he meant to do, “what you suggest can 
easily be managed. Of course, you know,” he added, 
“that ‘legitimate’ racing has not yet started, so that 
you will have only jumping races to bet upon. And 
getting on jumping races is very risky work.” 

“All betting is risky work, I consider,” Milo an¬ 
swered dryly. “But to me that is immaterial at the 
present time. I want to win a big sum, which will be 
paid at once.” 

His friend smiled. 

“That is what we all want to do,” he said, “but it 
takes a bit of doing, believe me. I’ve been at the 
game for years, myself, and I rarely make more than 
five per cent, per annum on the capital I invest, betting 
month in, month out. I have pulled off some big 
coups, I admit, but they come rarely. How soon do 
you want to start your gamble?” 

“At once, the sooner the better.” 

“Very well. Lunch with me to-morrow at twelve 
o’clock, and we will go on together afterwards to a 


226 THREE KNOTS 

friend of mine who has a tape. You will find there six 
or eight others, not more, all men you will like, I 
think. I have an appointment now, so must leave you.” 
you.” 

The house to which they repaired next day was in 
a quiet street in the West End. Milo’s friend pre¬ 
sented him to the host and to a gentleman with a 
Semitic cast of countenance, who took them both into 
his smoking-room, where they had whiskies and sodas. 
Other men were there already, to whom Milo was intro¬ 
duced. They were mostly men of sharp features, quick 
of movement, with intelligent eyes. Milo was warmly 
welcomed. There is a strange sort of freemasonry 
amongst gamblers and turf speculators to be found in 
hardly any other walk of life, a kind of bonhomie 
which at first is very pleasant. Later it may prove 
less so, as, for instance, when a member of the coterie 
finds himself unable to meet his liabilities, his “debts 
of honour,” as they are called. 

“It is one o’clock, gentlemen,” the host said pres¬ 
ently, glancing at his watch. “Shall we adjourn, if 
you are ready? Come with me,” he ended, turning 
to Octavius Milo. “I will show you the way.” 

They passed along a short corridor, then turned to 
the right. 

The room they entered was not large. At one side 
stood a tape-machine, already ticking out news to do 
with racing. There was a big square table in the mid¬ 
dle of the room on which were blank paper, pencils, 
pens, ink and blotting-paper, and some copies of racing 
guides and annuals, and books of form and also a pile 
of sporting daily papers. Comfortable arm-chairs 
stood here and there, and there was a sideboard with 
decanters, syphons, bottles and tumblers upon it. Fac- 


HARD HIT 227 

ing the tape was a small table upon which lay a closed 
ledger, and near it a revolving chair. 

Milo’s friend picked up the tape, and glanced at it 
carelessly. 

“Matchstand goes after all, I see,” he said. “I 
thought he would. He ought to about get home with 
the light weight he is carrying.” 

The other men gathered about him, and began to 
read the tape. The jargon they talked conveyed little 
to Milo, but he listened, interested. 

Presently the host went over to the small table, 
pulled up the revolving chair, seated himself, and then 
opened the ledger. He turned over several leaves, ran 
his finger down some columns of names and figures, 
then took the receiver off the hook of the telephone 
transmitter which stood beside the ledger. 

“A hundred each way on Laughing Gas,” he said. 

“Right,” and he replaced the receiver. 

When he had made an entry in the ledger, he lit a 
long cigar, then lay back in his chair, blowing a cloud 
of smoke towards the ceiling. 

“Mix me a brandy and soda, one of you fellows,” 
he called out. 

One of them did so, and brought it to him. He 
drank half of it at a gulp, then put the tumbler 
down. 

The tape was ticking again. 

“They all go in the first race,” somebody standing 
by the machine said. “Fifty each way Boulter’s Lock, 
Mark.” 

“Done,” the host answered, making an entry in a 
different column. 

“What will Boulter’s Lock start at?” Milo inquired 
carelessly. 


228 


THREE KNOTS 


“A pretty long price,” answered the man who had 
just backed it. “Nine or ten to one, I should say.” 

Milo strolled over to his host, and murmured some¬ 
thing. 

“A monkey on Boulter’s Lock,” the latter said in 
an undertone, and entered the bet. 

Milo murmured again. 

“I’ve done with the animal myself, now,” the host 
replied, “but if you want to back it for another monkey, 
I can get the money on for you,” and again he picked 
up the receiver. 

“No, that will do.” 

“I don’t mind telling you now,” the host said, look¬ 
ing up at him, “that Boulter’s Lock, though he can 
stay the course, is quite likely to fall. If it was 
John, M.P. now, it would be different. Ever seen him 
run?” 

“Seen what run?” 

“John, M.P.” 

“Never.” 

“He jumps sideways and is as safe as houses. I 
laid four to one on him once—foolish thing to do, 
I admit in a jumping race—and he romped home. 
But Boulter’s Lock—well, he would not start at ten 
to one or more for nothing now, would he? He’ll fall, 
you mark my words! I shouldn’t be surprised if he 
started at twelve to one.” 

“Off!” somebody near the tape exclaimed. 

They all gathered about the little marble pillar upon 
which stood the machine of polished brass, and now 
waited in silence. Only three had backed anything in 
the first race, and only Milo and the man who had 
first mentioned Boulter’s Lock had backed that animal. 

Presently the machine began to buzz again. Then 


HARD HIT 229 

it started ticking. Out came the letters in nervous 
little jerks. 

1-30. B-o-u-l-t- . . . ” 

“Boulter’s Lock wins, Mark!” two men exclaimed 
in chorus. 

“You don’t say,” answered the host, without look¬ 
ing round. Again he made an entry. “And I was sure 
he would fall. Congratulations, Mr. Milo.” 

Milo’s face was expressionless. 

Laughing Gas was second, the favourite nowhere. 
Presently the tape ticked out: “Betting: Boulter’s 
Lock, 16 to 1,” and added the prices of the second 
and third horse. 

“Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Milo?” remarked the host. 
“They made sure that he would fall—and so he didn’t. 
Eight thousand pounds. Not a bad win to start with. 
A pity you didn’t back him for a place too. I always 
back ’em both ways, or almost always.” 

The host’s clients backed their various “fancies” 
in the next two races. In each Milo backed one for a 
“monkey,” and both horses won, one at four to one, 
and one at two to one, thus placing a further £3,000 
to his credit. In the next race he backed the favourite 
for £1,000 and it won by a neck. 

“You are the luckiest man I have met for a long 
time,” one of his new acquaintances said, laughing. 
“And I understand that you never back horses.” 

“Only very rarely,” Milo answered. “Until to-day 
I have never backed a horse for more than a five- 
pound note.” 

“Well, it’s the old racing superstition come true 
again—a beginner is always lucky. Perhaps you will 
make the exception and go on lucky. I hope so, I 
am sure. You have the right spirit and plenty of 


230 


THREE KNOTS 


pluck, so you deserve to prosper. I would no more 
have thought of backing Flyaway to-day as you did, 
than I would of flying away myself,” and he smiled 
at his little pun. “She’s a brute, really. One day 
she’ll run out, the next day she’ll refuse, the next day 
she’ll make a false start, and the next day she’ll do 
everything she ought to do, just as she has done to¬ 
day, most likely. Now, what about this next race? 
It ought to be a walk over for Petite Fille on book 
form. There’s nothing else in it except Bog Oak. 
What are you backing, Mr. Milo? I can’t go far 
wrong to-day if I follow your advice.” 

Milo was now £12,000 to the good. Of this only 
a proportion was owed to him by his host. The re¬ 
mainder his host had placed on commission with other 
agents by telephone. Reviewing the situation calmly, 
as he sipped a whisky and soda, Milo decided to stop. 
The balance of £3,000 which he still needed to complete 
the £15,000 he had set out to win, he could pay with¬ 
out running further risks by betting. He had not 
expected to win the full amount in one day, and his 
phenomenal luck had surprised him. Then, reflecting 
that though in luck to-day he might not be in luck 
to-morrow, and being, in addition, unconsciously at¬ 
tracted by a game which until now he had looked upon 
as a fool’s game, he decided to tempt fortune just 
once more. He would back something in the next 
race, the last but one, for £1,000, something starting 
at not less? than three or four to one. How satisfactory 
if, instead of winning only the £15,000 he needed, he 
were to end the day with £1,000 or £2,000 over and 
above that sum. He would then indeed have played 
Fate a nasty trick. 

“I am backing Pooh Bah this time,” he called out 


HARD HIT 231 

to his host. “A thousand to win, and a monkey a 
place.” 

“Right.” 

The bet was duly booked. 

Ten minutes later the result came upon the tape. 
Pooh Bah had started at six to one and was one of 
the “also ran.” Later the tape told them that Pooh 
Bah had fallen at the dry ditch. 

There was only one more race. Milo, who by now 
had drunk more whisky and soda than was his wont, 
backed the second favourite for £1,000 each way, and 
lost. 

“I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again to¬ 
morrow, I hope?” his host said affably, shaking him by 
the hand, as they all prepared to leave. 

“I expect so,” Milo answered, laughing. “I have had 
great luck to-day—except in the last two races.” 

“You have indeed, Mr. Milo. And I hope the same 
luck will follow you to-morrow.” 

“Not only follow, but overtake me,” Milo replied 
jocosely. 

“Overtake you. Yes. Ha, ha, that is very good. 
You will have another drink before you go? And a 
cigar, yes? Try one of these; they are excellent I 
assure you,” and he produced an enormous gold cigar- 
case from his inside breast-pocket. 

Alone in his bedroom at an hotel that evening, Milo 
thought over the events of the afternoon. The effect 
of the whisky had worn off, and his brain was quite 
clear. It seemed to him extraordinary that he should 
have had such luck, and yet .... 

Well, plenty of people he knew seemed to have luck 
in backing horses. Perhaps all were not such fools 


232 


THREE KNOTS 


as he had hitherto considered them. Perhaps, after 
all, it was possible to win money consistently by back¬ 
ing horses. True, the animals he had backed that 
afternoon he had picked out quite haphazard, just as 
he might have drawn lucky lottery tickets, for he 
knew nothing about racing. Then his better judgment 
prevailed, and he knew that backing horses was really, 
what he had so often termed it, “a mug’s game.” He 
ought to stop it. He ought to have stopped when he 
was £12,000 to the good, instead of going on and losing 
£3,500 of it. No, he would not go back next day. He 
would not bet any more. Early in the morning he 
would ring up his host and say he could not come. 

But the next day came, and he did not ring up his 
host. All the morning he told himself he would, but by 
noon he had not done so, and by twelve-thirty he had 
decided that he would try his luck once more. After 
all, he had not expected to win so much on the first 
day. What he had hoped was that during the week’s 
grace he still had he would manage to win the total 
sum he required to meet Mosse & Evelburg’s bills. Also 
he had, upon the whole, enjoyed yesterday afternoon. 
The lunch had been excellent. Afterwards he had 
found the company of his new acquaintances congenial. 
Most of all—though this he did not admit—the sup¬ 
pressed excitement he had felt whilst waiting for the 
results of the races to come up on the tape, had been 
intense. In short, without his knowing it, he had con¬ 
tracted the gambling fever. 

That afternoon he lost the whole of his winnings, 
and £3,500 besides. Late in the evening he despatched 
a long telegram to his confidential clerk in Exeter. 
Next day he went again to the house in the West End, 
where his host greeted him more cordially than ever. 


HARD HIT 


233 


By the end of the day’s racing he was £6,500 “down,” 
or £10,000 to the bad on the two days, and he still 
needed the £15,000 in addition to meet the bills on 
Monday. Again he sent off a telegram. At seven next 
morning a wire reached him in reply. His clerk was 
protesting. He cursed him mentally and answered the 
telegram and went again to the house. This was 
Friday. 

He was gambling with his clients’ money now. Fri¬ 
day night saw him a further £8,000 “down,” or £18,000 
to the bad, also he had drunk so much that he had 
difficulty in leaving the house. Next day, Saturday, 
he felt desperate and absolutely reckless. He fancied 
that his host’s greeting was not so cordial as before. 
Had he known it, his host had been making inquiries 
about him, ascertaining by telephone through an en¬ 
quiry agency how much the lawyer was really worth. 
He entered his bets, however, and during the whole 
afternoon Milo backed neither a winner nor a placed 
horse. 

His total losses on the week came to £42,000! 

In his valise at the hotel where he was staying, was 
a loaded revolver. He kept one by him always, had 
done so for years; why, he hardly knew. On the Sun¬ 
day morning he could eat no breakfast. He felt terri¬ 
bly ill. His temples throbbed. He went up to his 
room again after leaving the coffee-room, took the 
revolver out of his valise, and began to examine it. 

And as he examined it he thought with deadly hatred 
of Wal Marner. He was a ruined man now. Worse, 
he had misappropriated moneys belonging to his clients, 
and gambled them away. But he did not blame himself. 
Wal Marner, he told himself, had been the whole cause 


234 


THREE KNOTS 


of his downfall. But for those forged bills, and what 
Marner knew about him, the catastrophe which faced 
him would never have come about. 

He slipped the revolver into his great-coat pocket, 
walked rapidly along the broad corridor, went down 
the stairs and out into the street. 


CHAPTER XXV 


MORE CURIOUS FACTS 

Seven miles out at sea from Shadcombe, midway be¬ 
tween Shadcombe and Torquay, is an isolated rock, a 
thousand or so yards in circumference, known as the 
Oarstone. It is precipitous and looks like the peak 
of a mountain jutting up out of the sea. It has 
only one landing place, and its surface is rugged and 
has many nooks and crevices. 

It was one of those mild days, “muggy” they are 
called in Devonshire, when you might imagine it was 
spring instead of autumn. The sea was smooth as 
glass, the atmosphere so still that sailing boats, twelve 
and even fifteen miles away, could be distinctly dis¬ 
cerned. Irene Baxter and Gerald Grey had chosen 
this afternoon to sail out to the Oarstone, and they 
had just finished tea in one of the cosy nooks upon 
the south side of the little island. 

For they were now to all intents engaged to be mar¬ 
ried. Grey, despite himself, had gradually fallen, 
victim to Irene’s charms, or more rightly to her singular 
personality. For an hour they had been together in 
the rocky nook, and Irene had again abandoned herself 
to one of the strange paroxysms of affection which 
were so peculiar to her. True, she now no longer found 
Grey cold or unresponsive. On the contrary, he had 
folded her in his arms and smothered her with kisses 
235 


236 


THREE KNOTS 


and told her she was the most beautiful and wonderful 
creature he had ever met. They spoke of the past, 
grieving, like lovers will grieve, that they had not 
known each other, years and years ago. 

“Years and years ago,” he had answered, smiling, 
“you were not born. If you said a few years ago, 
it would mean before you put your hair up, and that 
would have been soon enough. Show me your hair 
again, will you? Just as you did that night, in the 
lanes above Shadcombe.” 

She had looked up at him with shining eyes. Then, 
instinctively, she had glanced about her, but of course 
no one was in sight. For they were quite alone on 
the rugged island. The only other living things were 
the seagulls which circled overhead, screaming. One, 
perched upon a rock within a few yards of them, seemed 
to watch them with an air of interest. Irene “shooed” 
it away. 

Then with deft fingers she loosened her beautiful 
hair, as she had done that night when dressed as a 
}^okel, and let it fall over her shoulders and down her 
back. Grey toyed with it for some moments, and its 
silky touch intoxicated him again. He took it up in 
both hands and kissed it. 

“I don’t think many women have such gorgeous hair 
as yours,” he said presently. “I wish everyone could 
see it.” 

She laughed like a child. 

“Do you?” she said. “Wouldn’t you feel jealous?” 

“Not a bit. I should feel proud. I should be proud 
to think that a girl with hair like this is actually in 
love with me. You dear little thing! I wonder what 
strange, hypnotic power it is about you that draws 
me to you so.” 


MORE CURIOUS FACTS 


237 


He was stroking her hair still, fondling her, press¬ 
ing her cheek against his. Their lips met again, and 
again they kissed and kissed. The seagulls screamed. 
One swept past so close to them that the wind its 
wings made fanned their faces. 

In the stern of the boat in which they had sailed 
out to the Oarstone, the old boatman dozed, his chin 
upon his chest. The boat was out of sight, on the 
opposite side of the island. The old man had mut¬ 
tered to himself as he had watched them scrambling 
up the rocks together. He was in the habit of taking 
young people for a sail, but this was the first time 
he had ever landed lovers at the Oarstone. 

“ ’Tis a rum notion,” had been his final comment. 
Then he had spat into the sea with some vehemence, 
as though to emphasise his statement. 

After a while they returned to earth, and began to 
talk rationally. Presently Irene Baxter spoke of Milo. 

“When I was in Exeter yesterday,” she said, “I saw 
Mr. Milo. I wonder what can be amiss with him? You 
know how he has changed lately, but yesterday the 
alteration in his appearance was quite startling. He 
looked a different man, and years older. Do you know, 
Gerald, I think he had been drinking.” 

Grey did not answer. He was looking straight in 
front of him, out across the sea. 

“Why don’t you speak, dear?” she asked in surprise. 
“Have you heard anything about him?” 

“Well, I have,” he said some moments later; “but 
what I have heard may not be true.” 

“Still, you think it is true,” she answererd quickly, 
watching his face narrowly. “What was it you heard?” 

“I ought not to tell you.” 

“Of course you ought not to. There are lots of 


238 


THREE KNOTS 


things we ought not to do, but we do them all the 
same. We ought not to have kissed as we have just 
been doing, but we did it. I ought not to have let 
my hair down, and so encouraged you to love me in 
the shamefaced way you have been doing, but I did 
it. Come, do tell me.” 

“You won’t repeat it?” 

“Oh, don’t be silly. Do I ever tell things? I am 
not a Mrs. Jacob Mulhall.” 

“Well, rumours, well-founded rumours, have reached 
me that Milo has ruined himself by gambling, that he 
did it quite suddenly—he never used to gamble, so far 
as I know—and that in addition he has misappropri¬ 
ated and squandered a large sum of money entrusted 
to him by clients.” 

“Knowing what I do about him, I can’t be surprised 
at that,” she answered. “And if what you hear is true, 
it means, of course, that he will be arrested and dis¬ 
graced.” 

Grey nodded. 

“He’s a crook and always has been, so I don’t feel 
sorry for him. No wonder he looks changed and wor¬ 
ried. When I saw him yesterday he looked like a man 
contemplating suicide.” 

“Possibly he is. You will hear all about it soon.” 

They continued to talk about Milo for some time. 
Then Grey looked at his watch. 

“It is time we went back,” he said in a tone of 
regret. “Have you enjoyed your afternoon, little 
girl?” 

“Have I! I shall not forget this afternoon. I 
shall never, never forget it.” 

“Nor I. Nor this island. We must come out here 
again. It is so peaceful and so quiet.” 


MORE CURIOUS FACTS 


239 


“Except for the seagulls. I didn’t like the way that 
gull looked at me, a bit, while I was loosening my 
hair. He looked quite reproachful.” 

At last they reached the top of the island again. 
The little boat lay anchored right beneath them, in a 
sort of cove or natural harbour. They could hear 
the water lapping its sides. The boatman still slum¬ 
bered. Grey shouted to him, and he awoke with a 
start, and began to look about him, blinking. When 
he caught sight of them, he slowly stood up in the 
boat, then threw out the plank for them to walk 
across. 

The jar of ale that Grey had left for the boatman 
was now much lighter than when he had lifted it in 
at starting. It may have been for that reason that 
the old boatman, taciturn and morose on the outward 
voyage, now became loquacious. While attending to 
the sail, he began voluntarily to enlighten them on 
various interesting points. He told them his age, how 
long he had been in Shadcombe, whereabouts he lived 
there, the number of years he had been married, how 
his sons were employed and to whom his daughters 
were “tokened.” He also aired his views freely on 
the town, the way it was managed, and how much 
better it would be managed if he had a say; what he 
thought of the County Council and the Urban District 
Council, and then went on to criticise the behaviour 
of various well-known residents. There was one mem¬ 
ber of the club he seemed to hold in high esteem, a 
gentleman of considerable literary ability, who, after 
roaming the world over, had come to reside in the town. 
“A wonnerful clever gentleman,” was the way he de¬ 
scribed him, “an’ what ’ee don’t know ’bout deep-sea 
fishing baint worth knowing, ah tell ’ee. A proper 


240 


THREE KNOTS 


sport, ’ee be, a proper sport, an’ no mistake, an’ won- 
nerful clever,” he repeated. 

“I suppose you have yourself travelled a great deal,” 
Irene presently remarked carelessly, as she watched 
the water rushing between the fingers of the hand she 
had hung down over the boat’s side. 

“I have that, miss,” he answered, tapping the ashes 
out of his pipe. “There baint many countries I ain’t 
been in in my time.” 

“Were you in the Navy?” 

He gave a great laugh. 

“Navy? Naw, miss, Ah baint bin in the Navy. 
A’ve bin all my life on traders, since I were a nipper. 
A’ve been mate and first mate on a score of ’em, or 
more, I ’ave.” 

“Tell us where you have been.” 

“Tell ’ee where? Why, everywhere, ah tell ’ee. I 
was two years in the fisheries in Newfoundland, an’ 
I’d like to be there now.” 

“Oh! Is Newfoundland a nice place?” 

“Mebbe yew’d think it nice, miss, and mebbe yew 
wouldn’t. There’s good money to be got there—in 
the fisheries.” 

“You knew lots of fishermen and sailors there, I 
suppose?” 

“Any number, miss. Some I knew is ’ome now, 
living here ’bouts.” 

He had been stuffing black shag into his pipe. 
He stopped talking while he lit it. Then he went 
on: 

“You heard tell o’ Joe Soper as was drowned some 
time ago—leastways his body was picked up in the 
’arbour, ’an un says ee’d bin straingled. Ah knew 
Joe Soper well. Known un years, in St. John’s, an’ 


MORE CURIOUS FACTS 241 

then ’ere. ’Ee baint no loss, Ah reckon. Glide job 
’ee be dade.” 

“But why? What had he done?” 

“What ’ad ’ee done? Awe, what ’ave ’ee not done. 
’Ee’m best dade, miss. That’s all Ah can tell ’ee 
’bout ’ee.” 

“But what makes you say that? Did he do you 
some harm?” 

“Not me, miss. Naw, not me. But other folks. ’Ee 
done ’em ’arm enough, Ah reckon.” 

He spat over the side again and continued: 

“Now ’ee be dade, baint no ’arm to tell ’ee some, 
Ah reckon. Was you ’ereabouts, miss, last February, 
when young leddy up long at ’O’combe were found 
straingled in ’er bade?” 

“I was here about that time.” 

“Well, Ah tell ’ee,” the boatman lowered his voice, 
“Ah tell yew ’ee knowed more ’bout that ’ere affair 
than mebbe think upon.” 

“Why, what could he have known?” 

“ ’Ee knawed ’oo done ut. I’d make so bold as say 
he ’elped un. Awe, a bad lot, Joe Soper, a shockin’ 
bad lot. Gude job ’ee be dade.” 

This was getting interesting. Grey suggested to the 
boatman that she should have another drink of beer, 
and the man did so with alacrity. 

“There’s others ’bout ’ere knaws ’bout un tu,” he 
went on when he had wiped his mouth with the back 
of his sleeve and pushed the bung back into the jar. 
“Ther’s that Chief Cons’ble, Jeffries. Ah knawed ’ee 
tu, in Iceland. ’Ee baint not much gude, neither. Gude 
job if ’ee were’ dade tu. Chief Cons’ble!” he snorted. 
“Purty fine Chief Cons’ble ’ee be. ’Ee’d orter be in 
clink, that’s wher’ ’ee orter be.” 


242 


THREE KNOTS 


“Does he know about the murder, too?” 

“Du ’ee knaw? Aye, ’ee du. But tain’t no busi¬ 
ness o’ mine, no, o’ cors not. Ah didn’t orter talk 
like this to the likes o’ yew tu, miss.” 

“Indeed you ought to,” Grey cut in. “Don’t think 
that we shall repeat anything you say, or get you into 
trouble. Talk as freely as you like.” 

“Awe, if that be then A’ll tell ’ee more. There’s 
that ’er rich gent come t’ live ’ere, tuk a big place 
over Kingston way; yew knows un right nuff, that ’ere 
feller, Marner. Rich? I should say ’ee be. But Ah 
remembers un when he ’adn’t got much. ’Ee were in 
St. John’s tu. And afore that Ah met ’en in Fiji and 
in Honolulu and in New Guinea. Ah tell’d ’ee Ah 
travelled. Ah knaws all about ’ee tu. Pity ’ee baint 
dade. T’ole lot of ’em should be dade, be rights. 
They’re a bad lot. A shockin’ bad lot t’ole lot of 
’em.” 

They were now approaching Labrador, the little cot¬ 
tage built into the face of the perpendicular red cliff, 
about a mile from Kingston. Probably it was so named 
by one of the many fishermen who went out to New¬ 
foundland and Labrador generations ago, and subse¬ 
quently came back to their native country to die. In 
the summer, trippers in their thousands flock to King¬ 
ston’s Labrador, a popular tea-house now. From two 
miles out at sea it looked picturesque enough, nestling 
in the sheltering cliff. 

It may have been that the stimulating effect of 
the beer was beginning to wear off, or that the gentle 
motion of the boat began to dull his senses, for the boat¬ 
man gradually became taciturn again. Grey and Irene 
tried in turn to draw him on to say more, but his 
tongue was apparently tired. Perhaps he realised that 


MORE CURIOUS FACTS 


243 


he had talked more freely to these strangers—appar¬ 
ently he had not seen Grey before—than prudence war¬ 
ranted. Cleverly enough he brought the boat round 
until she headed straight for the harbour entrance. 
A strong outward current was running, and this ne¬ 
cessitated his tacking often, an operation which needed 
all the care and attention he could bring to bear 
upon it. 

When they had landed, Irene turned to the boatman. 

“Here is something for yourself, over and above 
what we owe for the boat,” she said, and pushed a 
sovereign into his horny palm. “You are a very good 
boatman, and we would like you to take us always. 
What is your name?” 

The old fellow thanked her profusely. Never before 
had any of his clients treated him like this. Then he 
gave her his name, and told her again where he lived. 

As they walked across the Den, Irene seemed in high 
spirits. 

“Isn’t that splendid?” she exclaimed. “That old 
man has just the information we have been seeking for 
months past. We shall get every bit out of him before 
we’ve done. I wish we had met him before. I will go 
and see his wife one day—he seems so fond of her— 
and that will give him more confidence in us still. 
Gerald, I believe that man will tell us enough before 
we have done with him to enable us to accomplish our 
task after all. Oh, how fine it will be if, after all, 
I am able to find out who caused Ella Ashcombe’s 
death!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


ANOTHER SENSATION 

Meanwhile, contrary to all the theories of morality, 
Marner flourished exceedingly. He had bought a beau¬ 
tiful house overlooking the river Teign, and away be¬ 
yond the river the landscapes presented by Dartmoor 
with Hay Tor, Hound Tor, Bag Tor and others tors 
outlined against the sky, made a lovely background 
which Yvonne, with her artistic nature, never grew 
tired of contemplating. 

The townspeople, however, though they liked Mar¬ 
ner personally in spite of his bluff, outspokenness and 
rather rough exterior, were gradually beginning to talk. 
It was all very well to say that this big man, who spent 
money so freely and entertained so lavishly, was going 
to marry the fascinating dancer who was ever his com¬ 
panion, what they wanted to know was—why did he 
not marry her as he was now in a position to do so? 

If Marner and Yvonne knew what was being said, 
they paid not the slightest heed. Perhaps they were 
too deeply engrossed in each other to have thoughts 
for anything else. They were still invited everywhere. 
Indeed, so attractive did Yvonne prove, that for a 
week Vera Trevor almost foreswore her allegiance to 
Mrs. Willie Monckton in order to fall in love with the 
partly foreign dancer, but she pulled up just in time. 
As for Mrs. Willie, the whole storm in a tea-cup af- 
244 


ANOTHER SENSATION 


245 


forded her great amusement. It was not to be supposed 
that she entirely approved of this violent platonic 
friendship between Marner and Yvonne; but, as she 
aptly observed, “If they choose to get themselves talked 
about, surely that is their affair. I can’t see what 
business of ours, or of anyone in Shadcombe, it is 
to carp and cavil. As for Mrs. Mulhall, I call her, 
to use her own phrase, quite unspeakable. She is a 
mischief-making undesirable, and should be put under 
restraint.” 

The other chief source of gossip in the town at that 
period was Octavius Milo, and the change that had 
come over him. At one time it had been rumoured that 
Polly Ashcombe was “setting her cap” at Milo, an¬ 
other characteristic phrase of Mrs. Jacob Mulhall’s. 
And perhaps there had been truth in the report. Polly 
Ashcombe, as we know, was a pert little person, self- 
centred and rather selfish. Also she had ambition of 
a mild sort. She had sometimes confided to her few 
friends that she “meant to marry well,” and, so far as 
she could see, Octavius Milo appeared to possess the 
attributes she sought. He was quite good-looking, 
after a rather peculiar type, he was always well- 
groomed, he had a good legal connection, and was cer¬ 
tainly not penniless. She had heard it said, too, that 
his clientele was rapidly increasing. Of course she did 
not love him, but that was not of consequence. He 
seemed quite to like her—he smiled and was very 
pleasant whenever they met in the street—and she was 
utterly bored at home. 

Therefore his altered appearance worried her a good 
deal. Fag ends of stories, too, had been reaching her 
of late. There were rumours, and rumours within ru¬ 
mours. He was drinking secretly. He had been jilted 


246 


THREE KNOTS 


by a widow. He was on the verge of bankruptcy. He 
had made some legal blunder which might lead, very 
soon, to his being struck off the rolls. 

That was Shadcombe and its talk during that 
autumn. In November an incident occurred which, for 
the time, turned the residents’ attention into a fresh 
channel. 

Jeffries, the Chief Constable, was arrested. 

The incident came upon the town like a bomb burst¬ 
ing. Jeffries was one of its most respected citizens. 
His character, from the time he had joined the force 
a number of years before, had been excellent. His 
integrity was believed to be beyond question. When 
the news reached them, the residents felt that their 
faith in human nature had received a severe shock. 

He had been arrested at a village near London. 
That was one point which caused surprise and gave 
rise to speculation. What had he been doing in that 
village of all places ? Then “it transpired,” as the local 
paper put it, that he had gone to London, two days 
before, for a brief holiday and to see relatives. Inter¬ 
est was increased when it became known that the arrest 
had been made in a house “occupied by a well-known 
American gentleman, Mr. Charles P. Jamieson, of 
Kansas City, Missouri.” 

“Why, that must be % the house where Mrs. Jamie¬ 
son lives who was staying here,” everybody who had 
met her exclaimed. “How very curious! What can 
Jeffries have gone to that house for? What can it 
all mean?” 

The solution was very simple, and it appeared in 
next day’s papers. The Chief Constable, in plain 
clothes, being off duty, had called at the house about 
seven o’clock on the evening of November 30th. It 


ANOTHER SENSATION 


247 


was then dark. He had asked to see Mrs. Jamieson, and 
had sent in his name. Mrs. Jamieson had come out 
into the hall at once, and she had recognised him, 
for while in Shadcombe she had interviewed him with 
reference to a purse which she had lost at Babba- 
combe, and which he subsequently recovered for her. 
The Constable had asked if he might see her “in pri¬ 
vate,” and he had looked “so solemn and important,” 
she said, that, believing he had come to see her on some 
serious matter, she had taken him into her boudoir, 
and shut the door. 

Almost at once he had demanded money, quite a 
large sum. Taken aback and a little frightened, Mrs. 
Jamieson had, nevertheless, not lost her presence of 
mind. She had first asked him several questions to 
gain time, and then she had endeavoured to put him 
off by saying that she had not that amount in the 
house, and so forth. 

The servants’ quarters being at the back of the 
house, and there being nobody in the place then but 
the servants and herself, she realised that everything 
now depended upon her remaining calm and not losing 
her wits. Had she attempted to ring, the man would, 
she felt instinctively, have prevented her, and the ser¬ 
vants would not have heard her had she called out. 

Meanwhile—all this she had afterwards told to the 
newspaper reporters—the man was becoming more and 
more importunate, and his manner was growing threat¬ 
ening. What was she to do? She had the money 
there, locked up in a drawer, and could have given it 
to him at once, but she saw no reason for doing so. 
What the man would do next, she guessed in advance. 
In a minute he would either attack and try to over¬ 
come her, or he would threaten blackmail of some sort 


248 


THREE KNOTS 


or other. She was almost at the end of her expedients 
to outwit him, when she heard the front-door slam. 
Jeffries heard it too, and he sprang towards her. 

“Who is that?” she said he exclaimed hoarsely; 
and she answered quietly, “My husband.” 

The man, she went on, at once looked wildly about 
the room, like some hunted animal. But the room had 
one door only, and before her unwelcome visitor could 
decide what to do, her husband entered. 

“My husband is a tall man,” she said, “over six feet 
four, and immensely strong. I told him to lock the 
door and take out the key, which he did. Then in a 
few words I explained what had happened. 

“By this time the Constable was cowering at the far 
side of the room, and livid with fear. He began to 
mutter apologies, begging to be let off. But my hus¬ 
band is not a man to stand nonsense. At first I feared 
that he might forget himself in his anger and do the 
man some bodily harm, but he exercised wonderful self- 
control. He stalked across the room, seized the Con¬ 
stable by the nape of the neck and gave him a 
tremendous shaking, just as you might shake a dog. 
Then, still holding him in his strong, right-hand grip, 
he walked over with him to the telephone, took off the 
receiver with his left hand, and summoned the police. 
They arrived about fifteen minutes after, during the 
whole of which time my husband kept his grip on the 
back of the man’s neck, so that the fellow couldn’t 
move. Then he handed the man over, and that is all. 
It was one of the most unpleasant incidents I have ever 
experienced,” she ended with a smile. 

That was what the Shadcombe people read in the 
papers, and it set the whole place talking. During 
the afternoon Irene Baxter w^ent to see the boatman 


ANOTHER SENSATION 


249 


who had talked so freely in the boat on their way back 
from the Oarstone. She found him already holding 
forth in broad Devonshire to a group of round-eyed 
listeners. Yes, he had said all along that that Con¬ 
stable was “a bad veller as didn’t orter be at large.” 
He had said so over and over again, he kept on re¬ 
peating. And there “was others too what knawed 
all ’bout un.” Among them he named several times 
the individual said to be responsible for bringing the 
man from Iceland and afterwards recommending him, 
when Jeffries had applied to join the police force. 

And then, as often happens, sensation succeeded 
sensation. 

People were still talking about Jeffries, and hazard¬ 
ing conjectures, when a fresh excitement occurred to 
stimulate their senses. 

Wal Marner had been to supervise alterations being 
made in his new house. He left when it grew dark, 
and set out to walk back to Shadcombe, as he some¬ 
times did when alone. Half-way across the bridge over 
the river, he noticed a man with a Trilby hat pulled 
down over his eyes, standing near the oil-lamp, leaning 
against the rails. Thinking the man must be ill, he 
walked across and spoke to him. At once the man 
looked up, straightened himself, and Marner saw a 
revolver muzzle within a yard of his chest. Almost at 
the same instant he recognised Milo! 

“Waal,” he said with an exaggerated drawl, “what’s 
the game, my lad?” 

“Game?” Milo exclaimed savagely. “It’s no ‘game,’ 
I can tell you. You’ve robbed and ruined me, and I 
have waited here an hour for you. I am going to kill 
you, shoot you like a dog, and I want you to know it!” 

Marner gave a great laugh. He had not spent his 


250 


THREE KNOTS 


life in the wilds of Western America and among the 
toughs of the Bowery, and of Chinatown, and faced 
many a perilous situation, for nothing. Even in that 
moment of crisis, as it might have seemed to a man 
of less iron nerve, the idea of his being “shot like a 
dog” in one of the most peaceful little towns in Eng¬ 
land, appealed to his sense of humour. 

The muzzle of the pistol still shone in the dim light. 
An instant later he had decided what to do. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


ON KINGSTON BRIDGE 

Milo had selected the middle of Kingston Bridge for 
his attempt on Marner’s life, having duly taken into 
consideration two facts. The first was that he would 
be able, directly he had done the deed, to throw his 
revolver into the river, and thus rid himself of one 
incriminating proof of guilt; the second that he would 
be able at once to walk on to Kingston, where he could 
return to Shadcombe by the ferry boat. He had made 
all arrangements for proving an alibi, should any un¬ 
toward incident occur to upset his well-laid plans. But 
he did not forsee that anything could upset them. He 
meant, if he had time and nobody was in sight, to 
lift his victim’s body over the iron rail of the bridge, 
and drop it into the flowing tide. It would make one 
more mysterious crime, he reflected, which first would 
prove a nine days’ wonder, then be described as a 
murder committed “by some person or persons un¬ 
known,” and then gradually be forgotten. He had 
learnt a lesson from the attempt some months before 
upon Marner’s life, and seen how easily that would-be 
assassin had escaped, though that attempt had been 
made in broad daylight and with a second man, the 
chauffeur, to reckon with. In the darkness it should 
be still easier, he had reflected, to escape without arous¬ 
ing suspicion. Besides, Mamer having already been 
251 


252 


THREE KNOTS 


once shot at, every one would naturally infer that this 
second and successful attempt upon his life had been 
made by the same man. 

But, as so often happens in cases of this nature, 
though he had laid his plans so carefully, he had 
overlooked one thing. That “thing” was the “human 
element.” So sure was he of success, so certain that 
he would shoot this man against whom he sought venge¬ 
ance, shoot him “like a dog,” that it never occurred to 
him to take into consideration the possibility of his 
victim’s escaping by means of a simple ruse. 

Marner was practically face to face with death, when 
he came to quick decision. His sharp ear had caught 
the sound of a horse trotting leisurely towards the 
bridge. By the sound, he judged it must be just 
reaching the bridge, at the Kingston end. Quick as 
thought he suddenly clapped both hands upon his 
heart, and stumbled forward, not towards Milo, rather 
away from him, to one side. A moment later he was 
leaning for support against the iron rail, his back to 
his assailant. His head had dropped forward, his hat 
had fallen off. For some moments he seemed to be 
trying with one hand to clutch the rail, while the 
other he still kept pressed upon his left side. And 
then, all at once, he collapsed in a heap upon the 
pavement, groaning. 

The horse was coming nearer. Milo heard it now, 
and hesitated. For the instant he was nonplussed. 
Here was this man he had meant to kill, lying in 
the road, and to all appearance dying. If he were 
not dying, he must at least have had a fit. His first 
instinct was to walk away, going towards Shadcombe. 
Then he realised that the rider must quickly overtake 
him, and that it might look strange if he, passing by 


ON KINGSTON BRIDGE 


253 


the oil-lamp not a minute before, had left unaided a 
man clearly very ill. 

There was but one thing he could do. He must 
pretend to be succouring the man lying in the road. 
Slipping his pistol into his pocket, he at once knelt 
down, loosened Marner’s collar and shirt, and laid 
his hand upon his forehead. 

A few moments later the rider came alongside. He 
reined up. 

“Hullo? What’s amiss?” he called out. 

Instantly Milo recognised the voice. It was Tol- 
hurst’s. 

“That you, Bobbie?” he called back. “Here’s poor 
Marner had a fit, or something. I came up just in 
time. Found him lying here, panting like anything. 
I really think he is dying.” 

Then another thought occurred to him. 

“You had better gallop into Shadcombe and get a 
doctor, quick. He seems at the last gasp.” 

“I will,” Tolhurst answered. “But I will have a 
look at him first.” 

Before Milo could say more, Tolhurst had dis¬ 
mounted. He tied the reins to the rail, then came 
over to where Marner lay. 

The oil-lamp shed a fitful ray upon the outstretched 
form. Marner’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing 
heavily. Tolhurst felt his pulse, then placed the back 
of his hand upon his forehead. Then he gently drew 
up an eyelid. 

“Strange,” he said, “his pulse is quite normal. And 
he doesn’t feel hot. How long have you been here?” 

“Oh, only a few minutes.” 

“And you found him lying here?” 

“I have just said so.” 


254 


THREE KNOTS 


Then, to their surprise, Marner suddenly stood up. 
The light from the oil-lamp showed that he was 
smiling. He bent down, picked up his hat, and, 
with his pocket-handkerchief, began flicking the dust 
off* it. 

“I congratulate our young friend,” he said, ad¬ 
dressing Tolhurst as he put on his hat again, “upon 
his remarkable imagination and his rapidity of in¬ 
vention. What really happened is this, Tolhurst. I 
was walking along, when I noticed a man leaning 
against the rail, with his hat pulled down over his eyes 
so that I couldn’t recognise him. As I came up he 
whipped out a revolver, covered me with it, and said 
he was going to shoot me. Just then I heard some one 
coming along on horseback, so to ‘spar for time,’ as 
the prize-fighters say, I tumbled down into the road 
and pretended I was ill. If you put your hand into 
his right-hand jacket pocket, you will find the revolver. 
Now, what had we better do with him? Pitch him into 
the river?” 

Tolhurst looked from one to the other. It w r as 
obvious to him that Marner spoke the truth. 

“Give me that revolver,” he said sharply to Milo. 

“I shall do nothing of the sort.” 

“Give it to me.” Tolhurst’s voice was threatening. 

Milo hesitated. Then he suddenly produced it, and 
handed it over. 

“And now come along with us.” 

Instead of doing so, Milo cursed them with an oath, 
turned, and began to walk quickly away towards 
Kingston. 

“Are you letting him go?” Tolhurst asked quickly. 

“Oh! he can go now, for all I care,” was the 
other’s answer. 


ON KINGSTON BRIDGE 


255 


Milo had arranged for an alibi, and would be able, 
he knew, to snap his fingers at them should they report 
to the police what had happened. They might make 
statements, but every statement they would make he 
would be able to disprove. He congratulated himself 
upon his foresight in making arrangements whereby 
he would be able to prove that he had been elsewhere 
at the time the crime was committed should suspicion 
chance to rest upon him, which he had not for an 
instant deemed possible. 

Still, though safe for the present, he knew that 
henceforth both Maimer and Tolhurst would look upon 
him with grave suspicion. What a fool he had been 
to be duped, and how unfortunate that Tolhurst, of 
all people, should have come up just then. But no 
matter. He would yet find a way of avenging himself 
on Marner. 

Then he reflected that in a very few days the fact 
of his having misappropriated his clients’ moneys, and 
of his being a ruined man, must become public prop¬ 
erty, and that in all probability he would himself be 
arrested. It would then be too late for him to get 
back on the man he hated. 

He was passing a little inn, in Kingston. The win¬ 
dows of the bar were brilliantly lit up, and he could 
hear men talking and laughing within. To drown 
his thoughts he went in, and ordered something to 
drink. 

He stayed there drinking until the bar closed. Then 
he was pushed out into the street, unconscious of his 
surroundings. 

Since the day hounds had met at Round O, Tolhurst 
had been turning over in his mind the incident in the 


256 


THREE KNOTS 


fog. He was no fool, and he rather plumed himself 
on minding other people’s business. 

“Other people’s business is usually so much more 
interesting than one’s own,” he had remarked one 
afternoon in the club, when the old retired Colonel had 
hinted to him, that there was such a thing as “minding 
one’s own business.” 

And so it came about that, without saying so to 
anybody, he had been quietly at work finding out 
what Grey and his friends were “up to.” 

So far he was satisfied with what he had found out. 
He had discovered that the three were in the habit of 
visiting the cave, sometimes together, sometimes alone. 
He had discovered that Irene had been trying to ex¬ 
tract from various people information to do with Milo, 
with Marner, and with Mrs. Ashcombe and Polly. Also 
she had asked numerous questions of the‘tradespeople 
about Jeffries, the Chief Constable, even before that 
officer’s imprudent visit to Mrs. Jamieson. He had 
discovered the cave, of course, and noted what was 
in it, and paid particular attention to the bootprints 
he had heard Irene Baxter and Gerald Grey talking 
about in the fog. He had put two and two together, 
and decided that they must be on somebody’s track. 
But whose track? What he had seen and heard, seemed 
to have little bearing upon the Holcombe Mystery, 
which was now to all intents forgotten. 

Could it be Milo in whom they were interested? It 
seemed hardly likely. Besides, what connection could 
Milo have with Marner or with Jeffries, and what 
was there in that cave on Haldon that could concern 
Milo? It all pointed to something definite, however, 
and what that definite something was he was determined 
to find out. 


ON KINGSTON BRIDGE 


257 


And then, on the top of it all, came this incident 
on Kingston Bridge. He did not for a moment doubt 
that Milo had meant to kill Mamer that night, but 
why had he wanted to kill him? He had heard the 
rumours of Milo’s approaching debacle , but until now 
had not heeded them. Could it be that Marner was in 
some way or other the cause of that debacle, and was 
that why Milo had meant to shoot Marner? 

Yes, that, he decided, must be the reason. If it 
should presently be proved that Milo really had robbed 
his clients and come to hopeless grief himself, then 
Tolhurst felt his conclusion would be the correct one. 

What good end would be served by reporting what 
had happened on the bridge? The police would have 
only the word of each of the three to go upon, for 
there would be no evidence to produce to substantiate 
their statements except the pistol, and the production 
of the pistol would really prove nothing. Milo could, 
and probably would, disclaim its ownership and repu¬ 
diate their whole story. Why should not the police 
take his word as well as that of the other two. And 
supposing they did not, what then? Why, he and 
Marner would merely lay themselves open to ridicule, 
even to abuse. More, Milo might bring an action 
against them for defamation of character, and, being a 
lawyer, he would very likely win it, even in face of the 
fact of his having lost his reputation. 

“Better leave it alone,” was Marner’s final comment 
the day after the incident, when Tolhurst consulted 
him. “If he tries it again, or anything of the kind, 
I guess I’ll be prepared for him next time.” 

Three days after the bridge incident Marner crossed 
over to Ireland again. Upon his landing at North 
Wall he was met on the quay by a man he had not 


258 


THREE KNOTS 


seen since the day he had been shot at, but whom he 
expected to find awaiting him: the old Newfoundlander 
named Watkins, with whom he had conversed at the 
Newton Abbot inn that day. 

After despatching his valise to the Shelbourne, Mar- 
ner told Watkins to come across with him to a certain 
railway hotel. The smoking-room was deserted at 
that hour, but he rang the bell and ordered refresh¬ 
ments. 

When they were again alone, with the door shut, he 
pushed his hand into his inside breast-pocket and pulled 
out a bulging note-case. He opened it, and with a 
wetted finger carefully flipped up the corners of a 
number of bank notes. 

“There is your blood money,” he said, as he thrust 
them into the other man’s hand. “It is not the first 
of our dealings together, but I guess it will be the 
last.” 

Watkins chuckled. 

“Until the next,” he answered laconically, tucking 
the roll of notes into his trousers pocket. “Is there 
any other service I can render you, Wal?” 

“Yep. Get back to England by the next boat.” 

“That was my intention. You’ll admit I did the 
job for you cleverly, anyway.” 

“Oh, cleverly enough,” Marner said dryly. 

“There’s one or two more you want put away.” 

“They’ll put themselves away. I shall not need 
your help.” 

The old man gave a callous grin. When he had 
emptied his tumbler he said abruptly: 

“Suppose there was some one wanted you put 
away ?” 

Marner looked at him sharply. 


ON KINGSTON BRIDGE 


259 


“Say what you mean,” he said in a tone of command. 

“I only said ‘supposing,’ ” and Watkins leered at 
him. 

“Say what you mean,” Marner repeated, threaten¬ 
ingly, “or without hesitation I’ll strangle you as you 
have strangled others.” 

The old man looked cowed. 

“What about that lawyer fellow who meant to shoot 
you on the bridge?” 

Marner’s gaze seemed to pierce him as he asked: 

“Who told you that?” 

“Nobody told me. I saw what happened. I was 
anchored in the river, fishing.” 

“Ho! So you would put me out if you were paid, 
eh?” 

“We’ve all got to live. Listen, I would sooner work 
for you. Why not be rid of the lawyer, as he’s 
threatening you? Same terms as the last.” 

Marner looked the scoundrel full in the eyes for some 
moments. Then he laughed in an odd way. 

“Say, of all the scuts I’ve met,” he presently ob¬ 
served, “and I’ve met some, you knock spots off the 
worst. I wonder how you were got?” 

“I’ve wondered that myself, at times. But come to 
business, Wal. Is it a square deal?” 

“No, and never will be.” 

“I’ve done the job here I came over to do for you, 
and it’s all right. You can trust me.” 

“The length of my toe. The job over here was a 
different sort of thing.” 

“Don’t make no odds to me, so long as I get paid. 
You do pay, I’ll say that for you, and well,” and he 
slapped his trouser pocket. 

Marner rose abruptly. 


260 


THREE KNOTS 


“Get out, you scut!” he exclaimed. “I sometimes 
wish I’d never met you.” 

“Remember whom you last said that to?” Watkins 
asked, looking up at him without stirring. “Who was 
it shot at you, day of that regatta, but didn’t get 
you square? I was there when he said it to you, out 
in New Orleans, four years ago. He’s another you’d 
be wise to be rid of, Wal, and at once.” 

“I’ll be rid of you, if you don’t watch it,” Marner 
answered, his patience almost at an end. 

Then, taking up his hat and stick, he strode out of 
the room, went out on to the quay, and hailed a 
jaunting car. • 

As on a previous occasion, upon his arrival at 
the Shelbourne he asked if there were letters for him, 
and was given a handful. 

“I have the best of luck—in some ways,” he said 
when he had read them. Then he smiled. 

“I wonder what Grey and that little detective would 
give to get possession of this,” he said aloud, as he 
finished reading one of the letters for the second time. 

Then he tore it into little bits and put them on 
the fire blazing in the grate. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


PURSUIT OF THE TRUTH 

Jeffries, awaiting his trial, speculated upon the 
future. 

He realised, now it was too late, the folly of his 
last act. Yet what else could he have done—bled, 
as he had been, until life seemed to him hardly worth 
living any longer. 

And the irony of it was that he was to be tried for 
attempting to extort money with threats, while the 
reptile who had bled him by means of threats, in other 
w T ords by blackmail, went scot-free. 

If only he dared expose him! But he did not dare. 
To expose him would be to sign his own death warrant. 

He meant to plead guilty. It would be useless to 
do aught else. And what would his sentence beP 

He turned pale as the thought occurred to him. For 
he must, he knew, be sentenced to imprisonment. 

But supposing he offered to turn King’s Evidence? 
What then? Would he, by doing so, be likely to miti¬ 
gate the sentence about to be passed upon him? If 
so ... . 

He must find that out for certain. 

His thoughts drifted back over his past life. The 
friend he had made in Iceland, with whom he had re¬ 
turned to England, who had recommended and to all 
intends gone bail for him when he had decided to join 
the police, what would he think of him now? And 

261 


262 


THREE KNOTS 


would he be called as a witness at the trial, and be 
cross-examined as to his previous acquaintanceship 
with him? 

As this thought occurred to him, Jeffries felt a 
pang of true remorse for his act. That, indeed, would 
be the bitterest cup of all. His friend had done so 
much for him, had put himself out to help him to 
get on, and in return he might find himself looked 
upon as being tarred with the same brush. 

Again Jeffries cursed himself for his stupidity. He 
must indeed have been a fool, he reflected, not to fore¬ 
see what the outcome of his attitude towards Mrs. 
Jamieson that night must be. Even if her husband 
had not happened to return home at the psychological 
moment, as he had done, Nemesis must eventually have 
overtaken him. Mrs. Jamieson had recognised him at 
once, as he had known she must do, so of course, even 
had she paid him the sum he had demanded, she would 
afterwards have lodged information with the police. 
Oh, he must indeed have been mad when he went to her 
that night! 

“A lady has come to visit you.” 

The warder’s words startled him out of his reverie. 
A few minutes later the visitor was admitted, the 
warder remaining within earshot. 

For once, Yvonne was quietly dressed. As she en¬ 
tered the cell, Jeffries instinctively rose. He seemed 
covered with confusion. 

“Sit down,” she said. “A friend of mine, you will 
probably guess who, has asked me to come to see you, 
as he is at present in Ireland and so can’t come himself. 
He wants me to ask you a few questions, and to make 
a proposal which he thinks you would be well advised 
to adopt.” 


PURSUIT OF THE TRUTH 


263 


Jeffries, glancing about him in a self-conscious way, 
did not answer. 

“As you know,” she went on, after a pause, “he 
knows a great deal about you. Now, he says he feels 
confident it was because you were driven into a corner 
of some sort that you—that you did what you did. 
Is that so?” 

“Yes, that is quite true.” 

“To put it bluntly, you were blackmailed. You 
didn’t know which way to turn for money, and so— 
so you—you tried to get it that way. Is our friend 
right ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Won’t you tell me now who blackmailed you? Re¬ 
member, our mutual acquaintance is practically certain 
he knows.” 

Jeffries looked at her sharply. Then he answered: 

“I cannot tell you.” 

“You mean you will not. That is a pity. If you 
would actually say his name it would simplify matters, 
and benefit you, too. Are you sure you won’t tell 
me ?” 

“I cannot tell you.” 

She shrugged her shoulders, and was silent for some 
moments. 

“Soon after Miss Ella Ashcombe’s death, last Feb¬ 
ruary,” she went on suddenly, “a bundle tied up with 
string was found near Hole Head, and, as it was be¬ 
lieved it might have some bearing upon the crime, was 
handed to the police by the finder. It was then given 
to you for safe keeping until it should be wanted and 
—you lost it. At any rate, it disappeared, and you 
explained how you had ‘lost’ it, and, to save your get- 


264 THREE KNOTS 

ting into trouble, the ‘loss’ was hushed-up. Isn’t that 
so?” 

Jeffries looked surprised as he nodded. 

“There were letters in that bundle written by, or 
apparently by, Mr. Gerald Grey to Miss Ashcombe— 
letters which, upon the face of them, might have led 
to suspicion of the crime being made to rest upon Mr. 
Grey, which did, in fact, do so, for it was chiefly upon 
the strength of statements in those letters that Mr. 
Grey was subsequently arrested. And no sooner had 
he been arrested than you ‘lost’ the letters, so that 
this evidence could not be produced in court. Now, 
why was that?” 

Jeffries remained silent. 

“Our mutual friend knows why it was, and he has 
told me. It was because you were ordered, under 
threat of certain disclosures about yourself if you 
refused to do so, to ‘lose’ them.” 

Jeffries began to fidget again, as he had already 
done once or twice. 

Suddenly Yvonne said, quickly: 

“You know who committed the crime—who killed 
Miss Ashcombe!” 

“I know nothing at all about it!” he exclaimed with 
emphasis. “Nothing at all.” 

Again she shrugged her shoulders. 

“That is a foolish attitude to adopt,” she said. She 
glanced significantly in the direction of the warder, 
and added, “Of course, I know why you deny it.” 

“How do you come to know so much about me?” 
Jeffries suddenly asked. 

“I am surprised at the question,” she answered, “see¬ 
ing what our mutual friend knows about you.” 

“And I about him,” Jeffries answered quickly. “But 


PURSUIT OF THE TRUTH 


265 


I bear him no ill-will. I have no reason to. Years 
ago he did me more than one good turn. You said 
he had a proposal to make to me, I think.” 

“Yes, he suggests that you should turn King’s Evi¬ 
dence, relative to your blackmailing, to Miss Ash- 
combe’s death and to other matters you know about. 
That, he says, would probably have the effect of exon¬ 
erating you to some extent at your trial.” 

Jeffries looked up quickly. 

“I have thought of that myself,” he said. “But 
would it have that effect? If I knew for certain-” 

“You need have no doubt on that score. Our mutual 
friend told me to emphasise that. He would himself 
have come to see you had it been possible; if he waited 
until his return from Ireland to come, however, it might 
be too late. Naturally he has a reason of his own, 
too, for wanting you to turn King’s Evidence.” 

Jeffries seemed all at once quite excited. 

“I must take time to think this over,” he said. “Will 
you tell him that, please?” 

“And meanwhile you will tell me where the bundle 
is? It is important that we should know.” 

He hesitated. Then, taking a pencil and a scrap 
of paper from his pocket, he scribbled a few words. 

“You will find it there,” he said, handing her the 
scrap. 

Yvonne raised her eyebrows as she read what he 
had written. 

“You surprise me,” she exclaimed. “I have been 
there several times. Are you sure that it is there?” 

“You have been there?” 

He stared at her in astonishment. Suddenly he said: 

“The last time I saw you, that day on Haldon, in 
the thick fog, when I was in Mrs. Ashcombe’s car, 



266 


THREE KNOTS 


and you and Mr. Grey and Miss Baxter got in to go 
back to Shadcombe—had you by any chance been 
there that day?” 

“We had come straight from there when we asked 
Mrs. Ashcombe’s chauffeur to take us back to Shad¬ 
combe.” 

“Ah.” 

Somehow he seemed relieved. 

Meanwhile Marner was busy in Ireland. It may be 
well to say now what really took him there so often. 
Among the men and women of doubtful repute with 
whom he had associated during his life in America, 
he had met and become intimate with members of a 
group who called themselves “Irish Patriots,” whose 
headquarters was in Ireland. At least that was how 
they put it. In reality they had no established head¬ 
quarters. Such a thing would have been risky. Their 
leaders lived in Ireland, but in no particular part. 
They were to be found distributed over practically the 
whole of the country. It was a kind of secret society, 
with rules, and a code which enabled any member to 
recognise any other member, man or woman, no matter 
in what part of the world they might chance to meet. 

Like most Irishmen, love of his country was bred in 
Marner’s bone. He knew nothing definite about its 
government, or whether it was or was not mismanaged, 
but he had quickly found out, whilst associating with 
the members of the “Irish Patriots” in America, that 
there was money to be made by throwing in his lot 
with theirs, and so without delay he had thrown his 
lot in. 

Upon his return to England from America he had, 
as we know, decided to abandon for all time his past 


PURSUIT OF THE TRUTH 


267 


way of living, and to begin life afresh, blotting out, 
so far as he could, all recollection of the past thirty 
years. But, as old habits are difficult to eradicate 
completely, so one habit of the past remained. And 
Marner, having persuaded himself into actually believ¬ 
ing that in allowing that one habit to remain, he was 
really benefiting his country and acting patriotically, 
made no attempt to uproot it. 

Briefly, then, he was now engaged in Ireland in 
helping the “Irish Patriots” secretly to import con¬ 
traband into their country. It was not that he cared 
greatly whether he did or did not benefit pecuniarily 
now. It was the secrecy, the organising, the general 
excitement of the traffic which appealed to him, com¬ 
bined with his mistaken belief that in furthering these 
illegal aims he was acting in a rather heroic manner. 
That, in reality, strong man though he was, he was 
being employed as a tool or catspaw by certain leaders 
of the band of Irish Patriots, never entered his head. 
Nor did it occur to him to wonder whether any of his 
former associates in his adventurous days were now 
aware that he was engaged in Ireland’s contraband 
traffic, and engaged in it on a very large scale. 

Yvonne certainly never suspected it. Had anybody 
told her the truth, she would have refused to believe 
it without proofs shown. 

There was one man, however, who did know about 
it, and that man was his bitter enemy, Octavius Milo. 
Curious to relate, it was Mrs. Ashcombe’s chauffeur, 
Tom, who had, quite unwittingly, first aroused his 
suspicions. Tom had met him in Starcross, one day, 
where Milo had hoped to catch a train to Exeter; but 
this train had not stopped at Starcross, and Tom, driv- 


268 


THREE KNOTS 


ing Mrs. Ashcombe’s car, happening to come along at 
the critical moment, had offered to give him a lift 
into Exeter, of which offer Milo had gladly availed 
himself. 

As they drove along, Milo had entered into con¬ 
versation with Tom, and presently, happening to speak 
of Wal Marner, Tom had said: 

“A nice gentleman, but a pity he helps them Irish to 
get arms into their country, don’t you think so, sir? 
It can’t do no good to nobody.” 

“Help the Irish to gets arms into—what are you 
talking about, Tom?” 

“I thought most people knew that, sir,” Tom had 
answered with a grin. “No business of mine, of course. 
Perhaps I ought not to have spoken about it.” 

“Who told you about it?” Milo asked, his interest 
suddenly stirred. 

“Well, it was old Joe Soper I first heard speak of 
it. Curious his death, wasn’t it, sir? It was at an 
inn in Holcombe one night—he was talking free about 
it, very free indeed. He’d had a glass or two. Seemed 
he’d just heard of Mr. Marner’s being in Shadcombe, 
and thinking of taking a house there. He talked a 
lot, oh, a lot that night about Mr. Marner. But, as 
I say, he’d had a glass or two, so we didn’t heed much 
what he said. But I heard about it since; about the 
arms, I mean. They were speaking of it only last 
week in a public-house, at the end of Market Street. 
You don’t know the place, I expect. There was a lot 
of Irish sailors landed off a boat that night. They 
were talking free, too. Oh, very free.” 

For some minutes Milo did not speak. The car was 
speeding up the hill to Peamore Arch. Suddenly he 
said: 


PURSUIT OF THE TRUTH 269 

“Tom, look here. What you have told me about Mr. 
Marner greatly interests me. Can you find out more, 
do you think, and get actual statements of facts 
and tell me whom you get them from? I will make 
it worth your while,” and he glanced at him sig¬ 
nificantly. 

“I dare say I can, sir. Only, of course, I don’t 
want to get into any trouble.” 

“You won’t. I promise you that. But mind, not a 
word to any one. This is quite a private affair between 
you and me.” 

“All right, sir. I understand.” 

This conversation had taken place just after Milo’s 
disastrous attempt to recoup himself by backing horses. 
Within a week Tom had confided to him a considerable 
amount of information, apparently trustworthy, con¬ 
cerning Marner’s visits to Ireland and his “business” 
there. 

It was on the day Yvonne went to see Jeffries, that 
Milo decided that he now had sufficient evidence to 
hang Marner. He chuckled quietly as he glanced 
through the notes he had compiled, based upon infor¬ 
mation obtained. And he had not only notes. He had 
documentary evidence signed by a renegade Irishman 
who would almost have cut a man’s throat for a sover¬ 
eign. Oh yes, he had his enemy in his grip at last. 
In a very few days, now, he would have a loop round 
his neck, and his vengeance would be satisfied. Mar¬ 
ner had escaped him once, now his vengeance would 
be even greater, for this man, who was gradually be¬ 
coming the most popular and most sought-after resi¬ 
dent in the neighbourhood, would unexpectedly be 
arrested, and soon publicly disgraced—if nothing 
worse. 


270 


THREE KNOTS 


He sat in his chair, alone in his office, thinking deeply. 
Then all at once a new idea came to him. 

Marner was in Ireland now. He had gone there 
quite recently. Without a doubt, it was in relation 
to this contraband traffic that he had gone there. He, 
Milo, would have no difficulty in finding out what part 
of Ireland he was in, and where he was staying. Why 
should he not run over to Ireland too, and try to 
find out even more about Marner’s movements? In a 
case of this kind it was impossible to collect too much 
evidence, and if he could say that he himself, while 
in Ireland. . . . 

Yes, he would go at once, the very next day. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS 

Bobbie Tolhurst was in a breezy mood. He was one 
of those public-school products who take life as it comes 
and consider it as a joke. He had “lived” as most 
young men of the world “live,” but he had never in¬ 
dulged in the questionable occupation known as “sowing 
wild oats.” There are still people so fatuous as to 
believe that a young man can go through a period of 
wild-oat sowing and then emerge from it unscathed, 
indeed be the better for it, and from that time onward 
live a beautiful life. Tolhurst did not hold that opinion. 
He had seen enough of life and of oat-sowers to know 
that the young man who deliberately sets out to sow 
wild oats almost invariably goes on sowing them during 
the remainder of his existence. He was rather strong 
on that point. 

“Do you really suppose,” he said once to an acquaint¬ 
ance who spoke approvingly of a young man’s “sowing 
his wild oats,” “that any habit contracted reaches the 
limit of its tether and then dies naturally? Have you 
ever known an habitual drunkard, or an habitual drug- 
taker, or an habitual anything else, suddenly stop dead 
and never drink or take drugs or indulge again in a 
practice that has become a second nature to him? Then 
how can you suppose that the habit of dissipation and 
debauchery, once acquired, can be suddenly abandoned 
271 


272 


THREE KNOTS 


at will, or that it ever is, except perhaps in very rare 
cases where the individual has an extraordinarily strong 
will and quite exceptional self-control ?” 

He was certainly no saint himself, but he had always 
had enough intelligence to be able to realise what would 
happen if ever he were metaphorically to let himself go, 
as he had seen so many do. He used to say that he 
loved trying new sensations, no matter of what kind, 
but that he never repeated the experiment if he found 
any particular sensation unpleasant, or likely to lead 
to disastrous results if often indulged in. 

On this afternoon he was feeling what he himself 
would call “very bucked.” As he sat with Irene Baxter 
and Gerald Grey in his cosy sitting-room, where they 
had all been having tea, he suddenly inconsequently 
said, after lighting a cigarette: 

“Miss Baxter, don’t you think the landscape views 
that one gets on Haldon exceptionally picturesque ?” 

“Indeed I do,” she answered, surprised at the unex¬ 
pected remark. “But what made you think of that 
now?” 

“This fog did,” he replied with a wave of the arm in 
the direction of the window. Though it was nearly 
dark, the drifting sea mist could be easily distinguished. 

“I don’t think I follow you,” Irene said, puzzled. She 
turned to Grey. 

“What is he driving at, Gerald?” she asked, smiling. 
“His mental gymnastics are beyond my comprehen¬ 
sion.” 

“Because,” Tolhurst went on with an odd look before 
Grey could answer. “I once met you in a fog on 
Haldon, that day hounds met at Round O. You re¬ 
member, surely?” 

“Now you speak of it, I do. Still . . . 


IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS 


273 


“Still what?” 

“You mystify me. I don’t follow your train of 
thought.” 

“I had a notion, somehow,” he continued, flicking the 
ash of his cigarette into the grate, “that on that after¬ 
noon you and Gerald and Miss Yvonne lost yourselves 
in the fog on Haldon, that you wandered on and on, 
and that somehow in the fog you stumbled unexpectedly 
—of course quite unexpectedly—across a cave in the 
side of a hill sloping down towards Dawlish and almost 
hidden by heather. All this may be the result of dis¬ 
eased imagination on my part or of some strange mental 
aberration, as you say, still . . . .” 

As he stopped speaking, Tolhurst felt Irene’s eyes, 
as he afterwards said, “boring into him.” 

After some moments she said quietly: “Well?” 

“Well, I was going to ask, why did neither you, 
nor Gerald, nor Miss Yvonne, ever speak to anyone 
about that cave?” 

“See here, Bobbie,” Grey cut in, “let us have this out. 
When did-” 

“Have it out, just what I mean to do, old friend,” 
Tolhurst interrupted. “Now, ‘as we are all friends,’ as 
the card-sharpers say, let us all put out cards down. 
I believed then, I know now, that the three of you were 
trying to discover certain clues—I needn’t particu¬ 
larise. Since that day when I overheard your conver¬ 
sation—my overhearing it was accidental, I assure you 
—I have also been trying to discover clues, more or less 
the same clues, I fancy, and not without success. Don’t 
you think, then, it will be as well if we all confide in one 
another, so that each may know how far the other has 
gone ?” 

“I agree to that,” Irene answered at once. “In fact, 



274 


THREE KNOTS 


I suggested some time ago our taking you into our 
confidence, Bobbie. Didn’t I Gerald?” 

“Very well, then,” Tolhurst said. “We are all trying, 
I take it, to discover who caused Ella Ashcombe’s death. 
Isn’t it your opinion—it is mine—that several mutual 
acquaintances of ours are in possession of facts relating 
to that tragedy?” 

“That we know for certain,” Grey answered. 

“Good. Now, as we are alone we can mention names. 
The names I submit are Octavius Milo, Mrs. Ashcombe, 
Polly Ashcombe, Wal Marner, I think Chief Constable 
Jeffries, and finally Tom, Mrs. Ashcombe’s chauffeur.” 

“Not Tom, and not Polly Ashcombe,” Irene said with 
emphasis. “They know nothing at all about it.” 

“You are sure of that?” 

“Quite sure.” 

“Very well, rule them out; I have not included Miss 
Yvonne, because, of course, I know that she is in your 
confidence.” 

“You have omitted to name the cook who left Mrs. 
Ashcombe’s service the day before the crime was com¬ 
mitted,” Irene put in. 

“Because I don’t know her name. Also I never 
thought of her. Do you think that Mrs. Ashcombe’s 
maid, Charlotte, knows anything?” 

“We are almost sure she doesn’t,” Grey replied. “To 
all intents we have proofs. Have you yourself discov¬ 
ered anything in the nature of circumstantial or direct 
evidence, and so forth?” 

“I believe I have. My theory, though I am open to 
correction, is that some sort of, gang had to do with the 
murder, possibly that the gang instigated it.” 

Irene looked at Grey. 

“The very conclusion we came to last week,” she said. 


IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS 275 

“Good. Gerald, give me a cigarette. I haven’t one 
left.” 

When he had lit it, he went on: 

“I have ferreted about a good deal since that day I 
heard you talking in the fog; yes, it was mean of me 
not to reveal my presence, but what you were saying 
took me so by surprise. Now, Marner and Jeffries, and 
that old man who was strangled, Joe Soper, and Mrs. 
Ashcombe’s mysterious husband, also a certain indi¬ 
vidual she knew intimately and who died in a village 
called Kenton, near Exeter, on the night of the crime— 
you know Kenton, Gerald—and a disreputable old New¬ 
foundland sealer named Watkins, were all as thick as 
thieves years back in various parts of the world. There 
was a tramp trading ship that ran a lot of contraband 
cargoes in various seas, fifteen or twenty years ago. Its 
owner was a man named W. Marner. Now, from what 
I have gathered, it is long odds that W. Marner was 
none other than Wal Marner. I got a lot of my infor¬ 
mation from the old sealer, who now lives in Newton 
Abbot; I have him a five-pound-note the second time 
I met him, and he was all over me at once.” 

“Was Milo one of the gang?” Irene asked sud¬ 
denly. 

“Oh, no. He would have been too young. Milo, so 
far as I can make out, became acquainted with Marner 
much later, about the time I myself first met Marner. 
It was in America we both first met him. By that time 
Marner had come up in the world. He was then dealing 
chiefly in stocks and shares. I’ll say this for him: he 
never once hinted to me that I should weigh out on any 
of his shady speculations—barefaced ramps I should 
have called them.” 

“But come to the point,” Irene said impatiently. 


276 THREE KNOTS 

“Whom do you think committed the Gareth Cottage 
crime ?” 

Tolhurst blew a cloud of smoke towards the mantel¬ 
piece. Then he said slowly: 

“Don’t you think Mrs. Ashcombe’s husband may 
have done it?” 

Grey and Irene Baxter expostulated together. 

“My dear Bobbie,” Grey said, laughing, “all that 
you have told us may be right enough, or it may not, 
but when you say you think George Ashcombe . . . . 
Oh, no, you are barking up the wrong tree this time. 
Why, George Ashcombe has been dead years.” 

“Yes,” Irene added; “he died in a lunatic asylum 
on that island off the Californian coast where all 
lunatics are confined. I forget the name for the 
moment.” 

“Are you sure of that?” 

“Positive.” 

“Have you proofs?” 

“Well, no, not actual proofs. What proofs could 
we have?” 

“Then how comes it that the old sealer, Watkins, de¬ 
clares that George Ashcombe died less than three 
months ago? Mind, I don’t take as gospel all that old 
man tells me, but my private conviction is that Ash¬ 
combe is still alive.” 

“I am sure you are mistaken,” Irene said. “I too 
thought once that he was still alive. Mrs. Ashcombe 
herself thought so, and may think so still. That I 
know from what she said to a clairvoyante named 
Satanella she went to see in London. Satanella was 
one of my own detectives, disguised as a fortune-teller. 
Besides, what possible reason could Ella’s father have 
had for murdering his own daughter?” 


IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS 277 

“Suppose she were not his daughter ?” suggested 
Tolhurst. 

“She was his daughter. But Polly—this is in strict 
confidence, of course—is not his daughter. That, too, 
my woman, Satanella, found out during her conver¬ 
sation with Mrs. Ashcombe.” 

“Then again,” Tolhurst pursued, “look at the 
strange things that have happened. Why was Mrs. 
Ashcombe always so nervy, why is she still, if anything 
is said about prisons?” 

“What has that to do with it?” 

“I have reason to believe that her husband was at 
one time in prison.” 

“Did the old sealer say so ?” put in Irene. 

“Yes. And how came Gareth Cottage to catch fire? 
My conviction is that Mrs. Ashcombe herself fired it 
in order to hide traces of her husband which existed, 
or which she believed existed, and might eventually 
serve as clues that would lead to his arrest, provided 
he could be found. I believe that all this time Mrs. 
Ashcombe is shielding her husband. I haven’t yet dis¬ 
covered where the Ashcombes lived before they came 
here, have you ?” 

“No. But I have suspicions.” 

“So have I, strong suspicions. Polly Ashcombe told 
me at Mrs. Monckton’s picnic that she used to hunt in 
Yorkshire.” 

“I remember her telling you that.” 

“Then you may also remember her mother’s cutting 
in and preventing her saying more, by turning the con¬ 
versation. Besides drawing out old Watkins, I have 
talked to odds and ends of old sailor men and others 
at a certain haunt in Market Street. I have picked 
up fragments from there.” 


278 


THREE KNOTS 


For a little while they all remained silent. Then 
Irene Baxter said: 

“If what you think is true, I mean that Mrs. Ash- 
combe herself fired the cottage, it certainly would 
account for one or two little happenings which have 
hitherto mystified me.” 

“Such as?” 

“Well, one night, for instance, Polly found Mrs. 
Ashcombe alone in the room where her daughter was 
murdered, kneeling on all fours, and rubbing away at 
the floor. Mrs. Ashcombe told Polly she was ‘polishing’ 
it; a most unlikely thing. The sound she was making 
—all this I have since heard indirectly—was like the 
sound a small saw makes. Could she, do you think, have 
been trying to obliterate marks on the floor, say the 
impression of bootnails, by rubbing it with sand-paper? 
That is just the sound sand-paper rubbed on wood 
would make. If your theory is correct, Bobbie—mind, 
I still doubt its accuracy—she might have been trying 
to obliterate boot impressions which she believed to 
have been made on the floor by her husband on the night 
of the crime.” 

Tolhurst’s face became animated. 

“Indeed, Irene,” he exclaimed, “what you say throws 
fresh light. Yes, depend upon it that is what she was 
doing.” 

Wal Marner, smoking a long cheroot, stuck in the 
corner of his mouth, stood watching a Holyhead 
steamer coming slowly into Kingstown. 

He had friends aboard, and he had come to meet 
them. They were all, had the police but known, mem¬ 
bers of the “Irish Patriots” League, and the business 
they were coming over to attend to was not business 


IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS 279 

of a kind that the British Government would have 
looked upon with approval. 

For ten minutes or so Mamer had been chatting 
affably—he usually chatted with strangers when he 
wanted to kill time—with a couple of tall, well-built, 
“official” looking men, whom he at once set down as 
detectives. Once he wondered whether by chance they 
could be waiting to arrest any of his friends upon 
landing. He quickly decided, however, that this 
could not be possible. He and his confederates in 
the contraband traffic managed their affairs far 
too artfully ever to be caught napping by mere 
constables. 

The boat came slowly alongside, and soon the pas¬ 
sengers were descending the gangway. Marner noticed 
that the two men he had been talking to now stood 
one on each side of the narrow gangway, and that they 
cast a quick glance of scrutiny at every passenger 
landing. 

Again he wondered if by any possibility they could 
be waiting to arrest his friends. 

Ah, there were his friends, all three together. They 
walked down the plank in single file, each carrying some 
hand-baggage. The two detectives looked hard at 
them, then looked away again. 

All was well. 

“Wait here a moment,” he said, when he had ex¬ 
changed greetings with them. “I think something is 
going to happen. Hullo! Why here comes Octavius 
Milo!” 

As he spoke, Milo came down the gangway. He had 
hardly set foot ashore, when the detectives stepped up 
to him together. 

What they said, Marner could not hear, but he saw 


280 THREE KNOTS 

Milo turn rather pale. And at that moment Milo 
saw him. 

At once his face became convulsed with fury. He 
was talking excitedly now to both constables at once, 
indicating Marner with his chin, as his hands were 
held. But the men paid no attention. They had orders 
to arrest him and they had arrested him. What he 
*was saying, trying to explain, they did not even 
listen to. 

Marner watched him with a serious face, with the 
expression of one deeply interested, as indeed he was. 
He showed no sign of recognition, and when his friends 
asked him if he knew who the man was who had been 
arrested, and how it was the man seemed to recognise 
him, he merely shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s a man named Milo, a defaulting solicitor,” he 
said carelessly. “I knew him well by sight. Lives in 
Exeter. He mistakes me for somebody he knows, I 
guess. Come along, boys, I have everything ready. 
We’ll go first to the Shelbourne, as usual.” 

Yet inwardly he was chuckling. He had put two 
and two together and knew quite well why Milo had 
been arrested. It was due to his having misappropri¬ 
ated funds belonging to his clients. He had heard the 
rumours that Milo’s firm had done something crooked, 
and that trouble was in store in consequence. He knew 
that the forged bills had not been met when Mosse and 
Evelsburg had pressed for payment. And he had been 
told by a friend, well posted in all that was happening 
in London, that Milo had “crashed,” as he put it, in 
a mad plunge on turf speculation on the tape. Marner 
felt very virtuous just then. He saw the hand of 
Justice stretched forth to seize an evil-doer and see 
justice done. It never occurred to him to reflect that 


IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS 


281 


Justice might have been equally well employed in 
stretching out a hand to grasp him too. 

So that was the end of Milo, he reflected. In due 
course he would no doubt be tried, convicted and 
sentenced. George Ashcombe was dead, and so was 
Joe Soper. Now Milo’s claws were cut. Really his 
luck seemed never to forsake him. The man who had 
shot at him that afternoon during Kingston Regatta, 
“with intent to kill,” was still at large, but Marner felt 
confident he knew who that man was, and almost as 
confident that soon he would lay him by the heels, too. 
Who was there left, of the old crowd, who could do him 
harm? The old sealer, Watkins? 

He smiled at the thought of that old derelict’s being 
able to work much mischief. True, he had made away 
with Soper, and done it very cleverly, but he had been 
well paid. Who else would pay him as generously? 
He remembered Watkins’ veiled threat when he had 
told him he knew what had happened on Kingston 
Bridge that night. 

But now that Milo, whose tool he would first have 
to become before attempting to carry out that threat, 
was safely put away, what had he to fear from 
Watkins? 

The four men were in great spirits as they scrambled 
off their jaunting cars in Stephen’s Green. They were 
talking loudly and laughing boisterously in the vestibule 
of the Shelbourne, when the page handed Marner a 
telegram. 

It ran as follows: “Important developments. Re¬ 
turn at once.—Yvonne.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE KNOTS AGAIN 

Christmas was approaching. Charles P. Jamieson 
having been cabled for from America to attend a 
meeting of one of his companies, Mrs. Jamieson and 
her companion had accepted an invitation from Mrs. 
Monckton to spend Christmas with her at Shadcombe. 

“We shall have quite a cheery house-party,” she 
wrote, “and it needs only your presence to make it the 
complete success I hope it will be. Most of the people 
you met in Shadcombe in the autumn are here now, 
including Mr. Marner and Gerald Grey, Bobbie Tol- 
hurst, the Ashcombes, Miss Yvonne—Madame as she 
called herself—and Irene Baxter. The man you did 
not, if I remember aright, care much about, Octavius 
Milo, will of course not be here. You no doubt read 
the newspapers, so I need not explain why. 

“Mr. Marner and Miss Yvonne still remain upon the 
brink of being married, but seem nervous about taking 
the plunge. Oh, and another mutual friend is here, 
though not staying with me—Mrs. Jacob Mulhall. She 
is the woman you used to say ‘flew off the handle’ when¬ 
ever she got the chance, if you remember. I know you 
will love to meet her again. Or won’t you?” 

“Vera Trevor sends her love and says she will cry 
her eyes out if you don’t come. I shall not cry my eyes 
out, it is so unbecoming, but I shall be most horribly 
disappointed. So you will come—won’t you?” 

282 


THE KNOTS AGAIN 


283 


Tolhurst had of late become facetious at the expense 
of what he called Shadcombe’s Modern Society. “The 
wonderful clever gentleman, this illustrious author,” as 
a local newspaper reporter had once called him, was 
also wont from time to time to speak mockingly of the 
New Residents—he was an excellent epigrammatist— 
but whereas his ridicule not infrequently had a touch 
of malice thinly veiled, Tolhurst’s jibes were always 
without sting. 

And certainly the New Residents afforded scope for 
satire. It was amusing to think, as Tolhurst used to 
say, that in a little town which had for years been 
considered almost upon a par with Bournemouth as 
a centre of ultra-respectability, should all at once have 
taken to its social bosom a man admittedly a reformed 
adventurer; a woman who had danced in most European 
and American towns, a lawyer whose ambition had 
landed him unexpectedly in gaol; and a lady with a 
mysterious daughter and a more mysterious past, whom 
some believed a widow, and an individual of paradoxical 
character. 

“Bobbie might have added,” the “illustrious author” 
observed when Bobbie himself had left the club one day 
after talking thus, “only of course we know why he 
didn’t, that equally amusing is the fact of a repre¬ 
sentative of Baxter’s Agency being received by Shad¬ 
combe’s alleged best people with open arms. Talk 
about the lion lying down with the wolf—or was it a 
lamb?—here we have wheat and tares growing in the 
same vineyard in perfect harmony. The whole thing 
is baroque, like one of the topsy-turvy situations in a 
Gilbertian opera.” 

The retired Colonel had been chewing the end of his 
moustache in silence. Now he cut in suddenly. 


284 * 


THREE KNOTS 


“I can’t follow jour epigrams and mixed metaphors 
and things,” he said almost truculently; “but I should 
like just to know what you mean by ‘a vineyard’ in 
reference to what you have been saying. What was 
this vineyard you spoke of?” 

“We speak in parables, Colonel,” he answered, an 
old member and resident of Shadcombe. “The vineyard 
—call it, is this place, Shadcombe. The wheat and the 
tares are respectively the good people and the bad 
among the New Residents or, as Bobbie calls them, 
‘Shadcombe’s Modern Society.’ Among the former, I 
suppose we should include Miss Baxter, who, like all 
good detectives, is trying, in the sole interests of 
morality, of course, to bring wrongdoers to justice, 
while the tares are the bad people—no, discretion com¬ 
pels me to withhold their names; but no doubt you have 
acumen enough to guess them, Colonel. I know Tol- 
hurst has.” 

“There is one person we seem all to have forgotten 
in this little colloquy,” Tolhurst said, ignoring the 
reference to himself, “and that is our Jeffries. It would 
seem as though into all grades of society in this townlet 
at present, corrupt people have forced an entrance. Or 
possibly the infection is contagious. Only yesterday 
Mrs. Ashcombe’s chauffeur, Tom, spread himself at 
some length on the subject of—well, the gentleman I 
am speaking of. Tom isn’t loquacious as a rule, quite 
the contrary, but he talked very openly to me while 
I sat beside him on the car. He declared he knew all 
along—well, that that gentleman would hang himself 
one day if given rope enough.” 

“It is always safe to say that sort of thing of a man 
when he is down,” the Colonel observed, jerking his 
chin up suddenly, a little trick he had. “Until Jeffries 


THE KNOTS AGAIN 


285 


got himself into trouble, nobody ever thought ill of 
him, not even the Ashcombes’ chauffeur, I feel convinced 
of that. By the way,” he went on, addressing the little 
group,” have you heard that Mrs. Willie has engaged 
the cook from Torquay whom Mrs. Ashcombe sacked 
suddenly the day before her daughter came to her 
unfortunate end?” 

“Indeed?” Tolhurst said, interested. “When did you 
hear that?” 

“Mrs. Willie told me so herself this morning. A good 
cook, too, by all accounts. Mrs. Willie has asked my 
wife and me to dine with her on Christmas Day, and I 
am quite looking forward to it. But we always look 
forward to Mrs. Willie’s entertainments, don’t we? I 
know I do.” 

When everybody had concurred that Mrs. Willie’s 
hospitality, no matter of what variety, was invariably 
“worth while,” conversation drifted into other channels. 
Nothing of particular interest was spoken about, until 
somebody happened to inquire how soon Octavius Milo’s 
case would be likely to come on. 

“Apropos of that case,” the Colonel said, when 
several guesses as to its probable date had been 
hazarded, “I am informed that Milo is likely to make 
some startling disclosures in Court. I heard from a 
reliable source that he might make statements con¬ 
cerning even friend Marner. Tell me,” he lowered his 
voice, “have any of you ever heard it hinted that Marner 
had to do, has still to do, with certain queer transac¬ 
tions over in Ireland?” 

He looked about him, then went on: 

“They say he has had a finger in some rather 
nefarious contraband importations, arms and so forth.” 

“For whom?” 


286 


THREE KNOTS 


It was Tolhurst who had put the question. 

“It’s the Irish Patriots he is supposed to be helping— 
at least so my informant had it,” the Colonel replied 
seriously. 

Tolhurst and the others glanced at each other sig¬ 
nificantly. The Colonel saw the glance. 

“Ah, so you too have heard something,” he exclaimed. 
“Don’t you think it singular?” 

But neither Tolhurst nor anyone else answered. The 
Colonel was a dear old man, as every one admitted, but 
his tongue upon occasions ran too freely. 

Meanwhile Grey and Irene Baxter were more hope¬ 
lessly than ever in love with each other. When not 
alone, they tried to hide their feelings, but their 
attempts were unsuccessful. It was at a ball at Mrs. 
Monckton’s, just before Christmas, that Irene was 
again overcome by one of her sudden and irresponsible 
paroxysms of affection. 

Flanking Mrs. Willie’s house, and facing south, was 
a long, wide conservatory, redolent of exotics, which 
for some years Mrs. Willie had made a hobby of culti¬ 
vating. Among these beautiful flowers was one, the 
perfume of which, Mrs. Willie sometimes laughingly told 
her friends, was “supposed to act as a love charm.” 
Found only in New Guinea, the specimens of it which 
she possessed had been brought home and given to her 
by a great friend, who formerly had been a tea-planter 
in Assam, and had afterwards visited New Guinea. He 
had told her that the natives of that island, a super¬ 
stitious race, largely addicted to witchcraft, regarded 
the blossom as a love potion. 

“It has a most singular scent, I must say,” Mrs. 
Willie had remarked to Grey one day; “but there, you 


THE KNOTS AGAIN 


287 


will be able to judge for yourself on the night of my 
ball, for I am having the conservatory laid-out accord¬ 
ing to a design entirely my own, which I fancy 
will appeal to a young man of your susceptible 
temperament. 

“No, I won’t tell you what it will be like,” she added 
ambiguously, as Grey tried to worm something defi¬ 
nite out of her. “All I will say is that Fair Rosa¬ 
mund’s bower will fade into insignificance by com¬ 
parison.” 

And on the night of the ball he found that his hostess 
had spoken only the truth. The great conservatory 
had been transformed by means of closely-set garlands 
and festoons of exotics, and artificial elusions of shrubs 
and evergreens, into a kind of floral maze in which were 
cunningly concealed nooks, cosy corners and little 
arbours, the whole dimly lit by half-hidden shaded 
lights, so that the place had come to resemble a sort 
of fairy-land. To add to its allurement, the strains 
of a band could be heard quite faintly, as though a 
long, long way off. What struck everybody most, how¬ 
ever, upon their first entering this enchanted garden, 
was the delicious and most peculiar perfume exhaled 
apparently by one of the exotics, 

“I wonder which the flower is that has such an 
extraordinary scent,” Grey said when he had been 
seated for some minutes beside his partner in a moss- 
lined alcove then almost in obscurity. “It is the 
strangest perfume I have ever known. Do you know 
its name?” 

To his surprise Irene did not answer. He turned to 
look at her, and could just make out her profile in the 
half-light. They sat, half-reclining on a sort of divan, 
so soft and comfortable that, as Grey had remarked 


288 THREE KNOTS 

a moment before, he felt he would like to stay there 
all night. 

Suddenly she spoke. 

“Why not stay here, as you suggest?” she said in a 
low voice. “I feel—oh, I cannot tell you how I feel, 
alone here with you like this, my own darling. Yes, I 
have noticed the perfume too. It makes me feel so 
strange. What was it Mrs. Willie said to you about 
it?” 

He told her. 

“A ‘love potion’?” she almost whispered. “Ah, yes, 
I can believe it being that. At least I feel to-night as 
I have never felt before.” 

He thought he heard her sigh. 

“I know what you are thinking,” she went on, 
speaking quickly. “You are thinking that if I am 
stranger to-night than you have ever known me, I 
must be strange indeed. Isn’t that so? Come nearer 
to me, darling.” 

As on previous occasions, he seemed suddenly to 
become conscious of her hypnotic personality, or what¬ 
ever the odd power might be which she possessed. He 
did as she had asked, and the attraction at once 
increased. In the half-light her eyes, fixed upon him, 
seemed to shine. Suddenly she put her arm out and 
drew him to her. 

Her hand slid down his arm, and clutched his fingers 
tightly. 

“Oh, Gerald!” she all at once exclaimed, “I have 
never loved you as I do to-night, Gerald, my own, own 
darling. Come to me dear—come.” 

A strange spell seemed to steal over his senses. Could 
it be the spell of the love plant that Mrs. Willie had 
told him of, he wondered vaguely? His brain, too, 


THE KNOTS AGAIN 289 

seemed obsessed by some power he could not understand 
and that he had never felt before. 

For a long time they stayed so, knowing that none 
could see or hear, none disturb their ecstasy. They 
would marry soon, very, very soon, he murmured again 
and again. There had been reasons for delay, they 
existed no longer now. To-morrow everything should 
be settled. 

The ball was well advanced when they at last 
emerged. Here and there in the enchanted garden 
couples roamed aimlessly. 

“I wonder,” Grey said suddenly, “if we can find that 
flower that comes from New Guinea,” and he went on 
to describe it as Mrs. Monckton had described it to 
him. At that moment they heard Mrs. Jamieson’s voice 
close by. 

“Isn’t it just, too cute?” she was saying, and then her 
partner laughed. 

“And it makes you fall in love,” he answered with a 
snigger. 

When they had passed on out of sight, Irene caught 
Grey’s sleeve. 

“That must be it,” she exclaimed quite excitedly. 
“Let us come and look at it.” 

They examined it closely for a little while, and pro¬ 
nounced it disappointing. Suddenly Irene said: 

“Look, Gerald, how queerly it is tied. It looks as 
though . . . . ” 

She stopped abruptly. 

“Gerald.” 

Almost as she spoke he saw what she had noticed. 
Bending down, he scrutinised the knots. Then their 
eyes met. 

“This plant, you know, comes from New Guinea,” he 


290 


THREE KNOTS 


said in a peculiar tone. “The knots were tied there— 
no doubt actually by natives.” 

“Natives! Did natives tie up those festoons, do you 
suppose?” she pointed as she spoke. “And the cord 
connecting those garlands, look at the knots in it.” 

For some moments they were silent. 

“Gerald,” she asked in a suddenly lowered voice, 
“who arranged the place, who put up these festoons?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“Do you know that the cook dismissed by Mrs. 
Ashcombe last February, and who has gossiped so much 
about the crime, now has a situation here as cook?” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


MORE ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 

At last the locality in which Mrs. Ashcombe, Ella and 
Polly had lived for some years before coming to Shad- 
combe, had been discovered. 

The discovery was made quite accidentally by Bobbie 
Tolhurst. He had gone to Middleham, in Yorkshire, 
to make arrangements with a trainer of racehorses there 
to take over some thoroughbreds belonging to a friend 
of his then abroad, and in course of conversation, one 
evening, the trainer said to him: 

“By the way, you know Shadcombe. I wonder if 
you have ever come across, or heard of, a certain Mrs. 
Ashcombe who went to live there a year or two ago?” 

Tolhurst squinted down at the cigarette he was 
smoking, a trick of his if he was suddenly asked some 
unexpected question. After a moment’s pause, he 
answered: 

“Why, yes, I have heard of her. In fact I have met 
her. Why?” 

“Oh, for no reason in particular. One of her daugh¬ 
ters was strangled, you may remember, a dreadful 
affair. Was the murderer never discovered?” 

“Never. And I suppose he never will be, now. Did 
you know Mrs. Ashcombe?” 

“Quite well. She had a house near here, just beyond 
Spennymoor. Her two daughters—at least they were 
291 


292 


THREE KNOTS 


supposed to be her daughters—were fine horsewomen, 
especially the one who is dead. They could ride any¬ 
thing. Used to hunt with the Bedale, and sometimes 
with the York and Ainsty. I bought some horses for 
them once. The two girls were wonderfully alike, if 
you remember. Is Polly with her mother now ?” 

“Yes. They have been in Shadcombe a good while. 
They had a cottage outside the town, but it was burnt 
down. Has she been a widow long?” 

Tolhurst spoke as though the history of the Ash- 
combes interested him only indirectly. 

“Strange your asking that question,” the trainer 
replied. “There is a queer story attached to that. 
Mrs. ^shcombe and her daughters lived here about 
three years. During the first year she called herself 
by another name. Then suddenly she took the name 
of Ashcombe, and it was commonly supposed that for 
some reason she had changed her name. But in fact, 
‘Ashcombe’ is her true name, I believe. It is generally 
known about here that her husband served a term in 
gaol, five years they say it was, I fancy for larceny. 
When he came out of prison he deserted her and disap¬ 
peared, and it was said that soon afterwards he died in 
an asylum somewhere in America; that would have been 
some years ago. Some say, however, that he never died 
at all, and that Mrs. Ashcombe is not really a widow. 
iShe was supposed to be well off—money of her own, 
you know. Her husband was formerly in the Merchant 
Service, they say; but that may not be true. All sorts 
of stories used to be told about him.” 

“Why did she leave here?” 

“Found the air too bleak, she said. She went to live 
in Devonshire because she wanted a warm climate. 
Also she thought, so I remember her telling me, that 


MORE ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 293 


the climate down there would suit Ella better. Ella 
was never what you would call robust.” 

“I suppose you never saw her husband?” 

“Never. But there was a tall, good-looking fellow, 
I remember, who used to come and see her here, stayed 
with her sometimes for a month or more on end. People 
used to talk. Of course they would, under the 
circumstances.” 

He smiled significantly. 

“I can’t remember his name,” he went on, frowning 
as he endeavoured to rack his memory. “Remember me 
to Mrs. Ashcombe when you see her, will you? She 
used to be quite handsome, and I suppose is still. Ella 
and Polly were equally pretty, nice, bright girls, too. 

On his return to Shadcombe, Tolhurst imparted this 
information to Irene Baxter and Gerald Grey. 

“We have made a discovery, too, while you have been 
away,” Irene said. “We have found the famous 
bundle, with the letters, etc., in it. At least it was 
Yvonne who put us on the track. Some one must, of 
course, have given her a hint; in fact she admits as 
much, but won’t say who it was. She is odd, in some 
ways, so unnecessarily secretive. We are great friends, 
yet I feel that I am not really in her confidence, though 
she tells me a good deal. I can fathom most of my sex, 
but, frankly, I can’t fathom Yvonne.” 

“And where did you find the bundle ?” 

“Why, in that cave on Haldon. Down in the dark 
corner of the cave, if you remember, there is a sort of 
recess, difficult to get at. The bundle was hidden away 
in there, and the opening covered by a flat stone the 
colour of the soil, so that we never noticed it.” 

“Have you the bundle now?” 

“Yes, at my rooms, locked up in my trunk. And 


294s 


THREE KNOTS 


what do you think I all along suspected—I know I 
have told you this—that the bit of broken tallow candle 
I found among the rubbish in the garden at Gareth 
Cottage might prove to have been part of the candle 
found in the bundle. Well, it was. The two bits fit 
exactly.” 

“Come, scent is improving! Have you any other 
news ?” 

“Only that Mrs. Monckton’s cook, who was formerly 
the Ashcombes’ cook, can tie those peculiar knots. I 
laid a little plot, with Mrs. Willie’s consent, and got her 
cook to tie up rather an awkwardly shaped parcel 
for me. She tied it at once with those very knots— 
sort of slip-knots, but different from any other slip¬ 
knots I have ever seen. I got her on the subject of 
the murder, too, and she seemed quite pleased to talk 
about it. She as good as said she was sure that Mrs. 
Ashcombe’s husband did it. That is one up to you, 
Bobbie. Still, for my part, I continue to maintain that 
at the time of the murder Ashcombe was dead. I prac¬ 
tically have proofs of that, as I told you some time 
ago.” 

“ ‘Practically’ having proofs isn’t the same as 
actually possessing proofs,” Tolhurst answered. “I 
have just told you that my friend at Spennymoor said 
some people there declared that Ashcombe had not died, 
that he was still alive.” 

“Well, even supposing, for the sake of argument, 
that he is still alive, what would he be doing here in 
Shadcombe ?” 

“I happened to ask Mrs. Willie’s cook that very 
question, just as the Ashcombes’ chauffeur, Tom, came 
into the room,—he had come over with a message for 
Mrs. Willie from Mrs. Ashcombe. He heard me ask, 


MORE ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 295 


and inquired, half apologetically, if he might be allowed 
to say a word. To cut a long story short, he hinted 
that he too believed that Ashcombe had committed the 
crime, and not only that crime, but that he was also the 
man who fired at and wounded Mr. Marner, which I 
maintain is absurd. His idea aout Ella’s death was 
that Ashcombe got into Gareth Cottage with the in¬ 
tention of murdering both his wife and his daughter; 
Mrs. Ashcombe, on account of her association with 
some man—probably the man the trainer spoke to you 
about—who probably was the person who telegraphed 
to Mrs. Ashcombe to come to him when he was staying 
in Exeter, or in that village near Exeter. Kenton, isn’t 
it called?” 

“Yes. And what did Tom say about Ella?” 

“Tom’s theory—a far-fetched one, I call it—is that 
Ashcombe believed that Ella—who, Tom declares, is 
not Ashcombe’s child—was Polly. Of course, supposing 
Tom to be right, Ashcombe could not have meant to 
kill his own daughter—unless he was quite insane.” 

Tolhurst thought for some moments in silence. Then 
he said: 

“I can’t understand, in the face of all this, your still 
believing Ashcombe to be dead. I feel quite sure, now, 
that he must have been the murderer.” 

“But where can he have come from?” Grey asked. 

“Really, I can’t see that that matters in the least,” 
Tolhurst answered. “The fact remains that he was 
here, in, or near, Shadcombe.” 

“You mean that that is your opinion.” 

“And apparently the cook’s as well as Tom’s.” 

“They told me,” Irene went on, “they never dared, 
before, say whom they suspected, as of course they had, 
and have, no actual evidence to go upon.” 


296 


THREE KNOTS 

“Certainly Mrs. Ashcombe’s behaviour,” Tolhurst 
cut in, “and a dozen little incidents, have all pointed to 
her knowing who committed the crime. Now it is rea¬ 
sonable to suppose that she knew for a fact it was 
her husband, and that she dreaded that suspicion might 
rest upon him. She may be very fond of him still, for 
all we know. My dear Miss Baxter, I consider the 
mystery solved. But now what has the cook’s tying 
those peculiar knots got to do with anything? Whom 
do you suppose showed her how to tie them?” 

“Ah, that I can’t say yet.” 

“You don’t think that the cook herself, or Tom, had 
any hand in the crime?” 

“Oh, of course not. How ridiculous! I do admit 
that for a few moments on the night of Mrs. Willie’s 
ball, when I noticed how the knots in the cord were 
tied which held up some of the festoons in the conserva¬ 
tory, I thought it odd that such knots should have been 
used, and that I concluded—wrongly, as I have since 
discovered—that they had been tied by the cook herself. 
Nobody seems to know by whom they actually were tied 
—I sounded Mrs. Willie on the subject. So many 
people helped to fasten up the garlands and festoons, 
she said, that it would be impossible to say for certain 
who actually tied up any particular festoon.” 

“And what about the letters in the bundle? What 
was in those letters? Whom were they from and to 
whom were they addressed?” 

Irene did not answer. Instead, she looked hard at 
Grey. 

“I wrote those letters, Bobbie,” he answered in a 
strained voice, after some moment’s pause. “I was a 
beast to write them. They are letters I wrote to poor 
little Ella "when I was feeling mad with jealousy—I 


MORE ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 297 


foolishly fancied she was growing fond of Milo. I wrote 
harshly, threateningly. The police read the letters 
when they found them in the bundle—and—well, you 
know how unimaginative the police are. The only infer¬ 
ence they could draw was that I really meant to do poor 
Ella some bodily harm. What I can’t make out is why 
the unknown criminal took them away, and, having 
taken them, why he left the bundle where it was after¬ 
wards found. It is odd, too, that he should also have 
taken a portrait of Ella. There was one found in the 
bundle; it is there still.” 

Tolhurst pondered awhile. 

“It looks very much as though,” he said at last, “the 
murderer meant that suspicion should be cast on you, 
Grey. Of course the bit of candle he probably put into 
the bundle in order that it should not be found, when 
it might have been used as a clue, especially if it had his 
finger-prints upon it.” 

“There are no finger-prints upon it,” Irene said. 

They went on talking for a long time; there was so 
much of interest they had to tell each other, and to 
discuss. Really it seemed now as though, after all these 
months, the actual murderer of Ella Ashcombe was 
about to be discovered. Tolhurst mentioned that his 
trainer friend could not account for Mrs. Ashcombe’s 
having apparently wished to conceal Polly’s existence 
for a time. At Spennymoor, he said, both girls had 
lived with her. Nor could he say where Polly had been 
during the years Mrs. Ashcombe had lived at Gareth 
Cottage—until Mrs. Ashcombe had returned to Devon¬ 
shire accompanied by Polly some time after Ella’s 
death, to the surprise of everybody. 

But a fortnight passed, then another week, and 
nothing happened. Jeffries and Milo remained under 


298 


THREE KNOTS 


arrest on their respective charges, yet neither was 
brought up. What could the delay be due to? Were 
private forces at work, secret wires being pulled, to 
delay, or prevent justice being done? 

That was what everybody wanted to know. 

It was now February again, nearly a year since the 
Holcombe tragedy had occurred. Soon it was rumoured 
that important evidence either was to be, or had been, 
put in by Tom, the Ashcombes’ chauffeur, and that his 
statements would be borne out by the woman who had 
at one time been Mrs. Ashcombe’s cook. 

Naturally, therefore, everybody turned for infor¬ 
mation to Mrs. Monckton; but, if she possessed any, 
she kept it to herself. This annoyed Mrs. Jacob 
Mulhall exceedingly. Deep down in her heart she dis¬ 
liked Mrs. Willie, was jealous of her popularity, 
possibly also of her beauty, her charm of manner and 
her general attractiveness, but she had intelligence 
enough not to betray what her heart concealed. She 
found satisfaction, however, in writing in her petty way 
that Mrs. Willie was not a woman to be wholly trusted. 

“Dear Mrs. Willie,” she would say, “one can’t help 
being drawn to her; and yet sometimes I wonder whether 
she is a woman in whom one ought to place implicit 
confidence. Those very handsome women—most people 
seem to think her handsome, though I don’t wholly agree 
with them—so often have some ulterior motive in what 
might appear to casual acquaintances to be merely 
being agreeable, I sometimes wonder . . . .” 

Then she would stop abruptly, to allow her listeners 
to form their own conclusions. For some there were, 
as she knew, who would be “catty” enough intentionally 
to place* a wrong construction upon what she insinuated 
she had “sometimes wondered.” 


MORE ABOUT THE ASHCOMBES 299 


At last, one morning, it became definitely known that 
both Jeffries and Milo were going to make some very 
sensational disclosures when finally brought into court. 
The exact nature of these disclosures nobody ventured 
to say, because nobody actually knew, though it was 
generally assumed that they would have some important 
bearing upon the Holcombe tragedy; also, it was said, 
upon the shooting of Wal Marner. Some went so far 
as to declare that Marner himself was to be pilloried. 
Tom, however, who seemed to know a good deal, was 
not of this opinion. He held the view that the name of 
the actual murderer in both cases was to be brought to 
light, but that Marner would have nothing to do with 
the case. And, though he did not actually say so, 
people who heard, him talk came away with the idea that 
Mrs. Ashcombe’s husband must, in some way or other, 
have played a very important part in both crimes. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 

“I hear that Milo and Jeffries are both going to turn 
King’s Evidence at their trials.” 

It was Marner who spoke. 

“What is meant by that, exactly?” Yvonne asked, 
looking up from the paper she was reading—they were 
breakfasting together one morning. “Before you go on 
—I see the announcement in this paper of Gerald Grey 
and Irene Baxter’s engagement. I wonder if they will 
be happy?” 

“Why shouldn’t they be?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Now tell me about this—what do 
you call it again?” 

“King’s Evidence. It means, really, betraying your 
friends to save your own skin; the sort of thing a 
man of Milo’s type would do. I am surprised, though, 
at Jeffries doing that. At least I should be if I didn’t 
know he had been blackmailed by George Ashecombe.” 

“Are you sure he was?” 

“As sure as I can be of anything. And that rascal, 
Watkins, swore to me that Ashcombe was dead.” 

“He may have thought or heard he was.” 

Marner gave a great laugh. 

“Yvonne,” he said, “though you are so clever in 
many ways, in some ways—you will forgive my saying 
so—you are positively stupid. Men like Watkins never 
300 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


301 


‘think’ or ‘hear’ things. They either know things or 
they don’t know them. You follow me?” 

“I think so.” 

She paused. Then she asked quickly: 

“They won’t say things they know about you, will 
they ?” 

“They can. And they may. But it don’t matter to 
me two buttons if they do. They can’t prove anything, 
anything at all.” 

Excitement grew intense as the day approached when 
the two well-known local residents would appear for 
cross-examination. Both were men of whom all kinds 
of stories had for a long time been floating about; and 
both were now known to have had some sort of mys¬ 
terious past. It was said that both had been soldiers 
of fortune. This certainly was true of Jeffries, and up 
to a point it was true of Milo too. 

Nor was interest in the case merely local. Through¬ 
out the whole of the West Country, from Taunton down 
to Plymouth, and even further, and from Torquay and 
Shadcombe up to Bideford and Barnstaple, the affair 
was discussed. It seemed more than likely, now, from 
what was said, that information would be forthcom¬ 
ing which would at last lead to the murderers of 
Ella Ashcombe and of Marner’s chauffeur being iden¬ 
tified. 

Milo’s case was the first to come on for hearing. 
Milo looked worn and haggard, as he stood facing 
his cross-examiner, and years older than he had done 
only a few months before. 

His statements, however, proved disappointing. 
They were mild and unconvincing, and, as he had no 
evidence to advance, they carried little weight. His 
allegations against Marner, who sat calmly listening 


302 


THREE KNOTS 


and looking on, seemed so far-fetched, that on one or 
two occasions they evoked derisive laughter. 

Briefly what he said was this: He declared that since 
he had first met Mamer—that had been in America, 
some years before—everything had gone amiss with 
him. Marner had advised him to do this, had egged 
him on to do that, and apparently, according to his 
own showing, had led him just as if he had no will 
whatever of his own. Yet, as Counsel for the Crown 
observed, defendant had not the appearance of being 
week-kneed and invertebrate, “a creature who would 
respond to any bell-wether.” Nor, as he further re¬ 
marked, did the defendant’s career up to the time of 
his arrest justify their supposing him to be deficient in 
brains or in ability; on the contrary, he had always 
appeared to have been generously endowed with both. 

“Moreover,” he went on, “nobody has ever, I make 
bold to assert, heard one word uttered which might tend 
to impugn the character of the gentleman whose name 
defendant has used so freely.” 

There were titters at the back of the Court, when 
this was said, but apparently nobody noticed them. 

“The accused,” counsel continued, warming to his 
work, “would have us believe that a very respectable 
citizen, whose only crime it is that he has amassed a 
vast fortune through years of hard work and deter¬ 
mination, coupled with exceptional ability (laughter), 
was actually foolish enough to forge his, accused’s, 
signature in order to secure a paltry twelve thousand 
pounds! Gentlemen, I ask you, could any declaration 
be more grotesque? For the moment it makes one 
almost question the defendant’s sanity. If the hand¬ 
writing, and the signature in these letters, sent to the 
money-lenders from America, with reference to this 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


303 


loan transaction, were forgeries—and I do not dispute 
that may not have been—who else can have written 
them but accused himself? Whose interest, but ac¬ 
cused’s, would it be to write them? Here we have 
a man who has not hesitated to embezzle vast sums of 
money belonging to his clients in order to indulge his 
passion for reckless turf speculation, calmly asking 
us to believe that a very rich man, in no need of money, 
borrowed a paltry twelve thousand pounds from a firm 
of usurers, and went so far as to forge his, accused’s, 
name, because, we must presume, he could not find 
anybody else to stand security for him. Gentlemen, the 
whole thing reads like a boy’s story, or like a tale of 
fiction written by a man lacking sense of perspective. 
Accused’s assertions are, in my opinion, nothing more 
or less than a series of trumped-up charges devoid even 
of any likeness of what the French call vraisemblance .” 

The case was altogether disappointing, from the 
point of view of the public. Milo was found guilty of 
misappropriating moneys belonging to his clients, and 
sentenced to five years’ penal servitude. 

When Jeffries’ case came on for hearing, the Court 
was packed. Great surprises were expected, as an 
Irishman present put it, and these surprises came in 
full measure. 

Jeffries looked very calm, far calmer than he had 
been at Ella Ashcombe’s inquest or during Grey’s trial. 
When asked if he meant to turn King’s Evidence with 
reference to an important matter with a view to ex¬ 
onerating himself to some extent, as he was said to have 
expressed the intention of doing, he replied that he did. 

“Under the circumstances,” he said, after prelim¬ 
inary questions had been put to him, “I had better go 
I)ack twenty or more years, and start at the period 


304 


THREE KNOTS 


when I first became acquainted with several persons 
whose names will be familiar to you. 

“At that time I was in America—in New Orleans, to 
be precise—living chiefly by my wits. I had come out 
from England about two years before, and failed to 
make good in any honest employment I had undertaken. 
It was then I became acquainted with a little group of 
men, Britishers like myself, who appeared to be amass¬ 
ing fortunes quickly. They seemed to take to me, some¬ 
how, and soon afterwards they made me a proposal— 
which I accepted. 

“They owned between them, I then discovered, what 
I can only describe as a contraband tramp steamer. 
They cruised in various seas and never for long round 
any one coast or to any one country, and they made 
their plans and handled their trade so cleverly that 
they went on for eleven years—possibly longer—with¬ 
out being caught. I was with them nine years, and 
during that time we traded with I don’t know how many 
countries. I know that we went often to New Guinea, 
landing there chiefly cargoes of spirits which we bar¬ 
tered to the natives in exchange largely for pearls. 
New Guinea was, I may say, one of our most profitable 
countries.” 

“I have heard something already about that boat,” 
counsel interrupted. “May I ask if she was not owned 
by a man named Marner?” 

“She was, William Marner.” 

A little flutter of excitement went through the court. 

“William Marner.” Counsel repeated the name 
thoughtfully. “There is a Mr. Walter Marner living 
in Shadcombe at the present time. He is in court now.” 

He paused. 

“Is Mr. Walter Marner who lives in Shadcombe, and 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


305 


with whom I believe you are acquainted, the individual 
who was master of the contraband tramp ship you 
speak of?” 

Jeffries bent slightly forward, as though he had not 
heard aright. 

“Will you repeat that question, please?” he asked. 

Counsel repeated it. 

For the first time since he had entered the box, 
Jeffries laughed. Indeed, in spite of what was hap¬ 
pening, he seemed to have difficulty in controlling his 
mirth. 

“Is Mr. Wal Marner the man who . . . are you 
speaking seriously?” 

“Seriously? Of course, I am speaking seriously! 
This is a Court of Law. Answer me at once, please!” 

“Oh, with pleasure,” Jeffries replied, smiling 
ironically. “Mr. Wal Marner who lives in Shadcombe 
is, I can assure you, not the gentleman who owned that 
boat,” and he chuckled again. “I don’t think I have 
ever seen two men of the same name quite so unlike each 
other.” 

The court seemed to give a sigh, as though of relief 
or of disappointment. Marner himself looked about 
him with a great grin on his good-natured face. He 
even went so far as to slap his knee with a resounding 
smack, as if this were the biggest joke he had ever 
heard uttered. Possibly it was. 

“Go on with your story,” counsel said. 

“When finally, after nine years’ successful trading in 
many parts of the world, it became apparent to our 
master, and in fact to all of us, that our enterprise 
could no longer be carried on with even a small degree 
of security, we abandoned it, and the boat was sold. 
After that we went inland.” 


306 


THREE KNOTS 


“What country are you referring to now?” 

“The United States. We then proceeded to embark 
upon many ventures, which I need not describe, fol¬ 
lowing all the while our sea tactics of never staying 
long in any one place. Sometimes, I may say generally, 
we were fortunate; occasionally we were not.” 

“Youwere still the same gang, I take it?” 

“As you put it like that, we were. We kept together 
as far as possible, perhaps because each of us knew 
too much about all the rest to risk independent action. 

“Among the countries we had traded with whilst at 
sea was Newfoundland. St. John’s we now and again 
visited and—well, I need not say more than that we 
floated a great company there which proved an equally 
great failure. We left Newfoundland in a hurry. 

“From that time onward, luck seemed to forsake us. 
One venture after another ‘went down,’ and we lost 
thousands. We tried to recover losses by launching 
ventures on a bigger scale than ever, companies, gam¬ 
bling-houses, bogus theatrical enterprises, emigration 
stunts, and so forth, but we could do no good at all. 

“It was then that our ‘gang,’ as you have called it, 
began to go to pieces.” 

“How many of you were there?” 

“At sea, a round dozen. Afterwards from eight to 
ten. Two were washed overboard at sea. Three others 
died.” 

“Which left seven.” 

“Yes, seven. Among the last to hold together was a 
man named Ashcombe, George Ashcombe, who after¬ 
wards was arrested in England and sentenced to penal 
servitude.” 

The statement created an immense sensation in Court. 
Mrs. Ashcombe, fortunately, was not present. 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


307 


“There was also a man, much older than the rest of 
us, called Joe Soper. His body, you will remember, 
was found floating in Shadcombe Harbour last year; he 
had been strangled. The man who strangled him was 
another of the ‘gang,’ an old Newfoundland sealer 
named Watkins, who had become one of our crowd while 
we were at sea. Watkins had settled in Newton Abbot 
afterwards. I now understand that he died there about 
a month ago.” 

All this Jeffries had related with complete composure. 

“Why did Watkins kill this man, Soper?” counsel 
asked sharply. 

“I have no idea. Some private grudge, most likely. 
Watkins had always been a blackguard, and was not 
to be trusted.” 

“I don’t think it is for you to talk of ‘blackguards,’ 
and ‘not being trusted,’ ” Counsel observed dryly. 
“Go on.” 

“When Anally I cut adrift from what remained of 
the gang, I went to Iceland, to Reykjavik. I thought 
that there I should not meet anyone I knew, and I was 
not mistaken. I obtained a good position in Reykjavik, 
and I may say that from then onward I led a new and 
honest life. 

“Some years later I made the acquaintance there 
of a gentleman who used to come out from England 
once or twice a year. Of course he knew nothing of 
my past, and we became very friendly. I had several 
times expressed a longing to him to return to the old 
country if I could find a post there that would suit me. 
One day he asked me if I would care to join the con¬ 
stabulary in Devonshire. I jumped at the idea and— 
but I think you know the rest. I should like, however, 
to emphasise my statement that this gentleman knew 


308 


THREE KNOTS 


nothing whatever about my past life. And now I came 
to what has so long been known as the Holcombe 
Tragedy.” 

He paused. The silence in court was intense. The 
ears of all were strained to hear the disclosures that 
the accused man was about to make. 

“I had been promoted Chief Constable about a 
year,” he continued in the same even, dispassionate 
voice, “when a lady and her daughter, with their maid, 
and their chauffeur, arrived in Shadcombe, and soon 
afterwards bought a house at Holcombe—Gareth 
Cottage. One day, to my amazement, I recognized the 
chauffeur. He had been one of our crowd in the years 
gone by, when we were at sea. For several months after 
his arrival in Shadcombe, something about him had 
puzzled me. I did not recognise him at once because in 
the old days he had worn a heavy beard and moustache, 
whereas then, as now, he was clean shaven, which has 
altered his appearance completely. No sooner did I 
let him know I recognised him, than he turned upon 
me, and declared that if ever I betrayed his secret he 
would at once unmask me. I knew then that he had me 
in his power, and that thenceforward I must tread 
carefully, do all I could to conciliate him. 

“For the time, however, we remained apparently on 
friendly terms. Sometimes he hinted that he was short 
of money, and generally on such occasions I ‘lent’ him 
some—of course, I knew he would never return it. He 
had been four years in Mrs. Ashcombe’s service, he 
told me. He also told me about a year ago that George 
Ashcombe, whom we had both known very intimately, 
had then died recently in America, but that Mrs. Ash¬ 
combe remained in ignorance of his death. Another 
thing I soon discovered was that he was madly in love 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


309 


with his employer’s daughter, Miss Ella Ashcombe. I 
may say, too, that the room which was revealed when 
Gareth Cottage was burnt down was known only to 
this man. Even Mrs. Ashcombe did not know of its 
existence. The door into it was a revolving 1 panel which 
the chauffeur discovered by accident. lie told me 
about it one night when he had had a glass too much, 
and, from what he said, I gathered that all in that room 
belonged to him. 

“And then occurred the tragedy at Gareth Cottage. 
As soon as I heard of the murder, I guessed who had 
committed it. This man, Tom, had, it seemed, killed 
her in a fit of jealousy—I had known him in the old 
days many a time become almost mad through jealousy. 
I saw him secretly, the day but one after the crime, and 
taxed him with having committed it. He admitted his 
guilt at once, adding in a passion that if I dared breathe 
so much as a hint which might lead to suspicion resting 
upon him he would at once unmask me, which would 
have meant my ruin and disgrace. He even told me 
how he had set about the crime, how, after driving Mrs. 
Ashcombe out to Kenton village, near Exeter, and 
leaving her there with a friend who was dying, he had 
driven straight back to within a mile of Holcombe—it 
was a very dark, stormy night, if you remember—had 
left the car in a field, entered Gareth Cottage by the 
window, and strangled Miss Ashcombe while she slept. 

“Then to put the police off the track, he had set 
the room in disorder, and finally had taken away with 
him some compromising letters which he knew to be in a 
drawer in the bedroom—he always read letters received 
by Miss Ashcombe and placed in that drawer, he had 
told me before—also a portrait or a miniature of his 
victim. He had some sort of idea, apparently, from 


310 


THREE KNOTS 


what he told me, that these letters might be made use 
of later to throw suspicion upon the gentleman who 
wrote them, and so increase his own safety. I need not 
mention the name of the gentleman whose letters they 
were. It was for this reason he made them up in the 
bundle, and left it where he knew it must sooner or later 
be found. The bit of candle found in the bundle he 
probably dropped into it by accident. He has since 
assured me that he never imagined that suspicion of 
having committed the crime might come to rest on 
George Ashcombe, which it did do.” 

As he paused, to glance at some notes he had written 
on a slip of paper, counsel asked sharply: 

“But if this man, this chauffeur, was in a position to 
blackmail you, why could not the other men you have 
named, Watkins, Joe Soper, equally have blackmailed 
you? Say, if they had needed money?” 

“Because they had no written evidence or proofs to 
produce, and so nobody would have believed them. 
This man, unfortunately, had documentary proofs. 
. . . I could move neither hand nor foot. Two other 
men whom I knew in the old days have also turned up 
in this neighbourhood, but there is no need for me to 
name them, though they had to do with the cave on 
Haldon where I afterwards concealed the letters. That 
cave was used by the four men as a meeting place, and 
I used sometimes to meet them there after dark. Their 
idea was that they could discuss certain plans with 
greater security there than elsewhere. They had fol¬ 
lowed that practice in Newfoundland, too. Mr. 
Octavius Milo also knew of the cave. I fancy he some¬ 
times employed the two men whose names I have not 
mentioned, in some capacity or other. I cannot say 
what, as I do not know.” 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


311 


“But why did you hide the letters and say you had 
lost them? And who sent the anonymous letter the 
police received soon after the Holcombe tragedy, hinting 
very plainly that a gentleman to whom you have 
referred was probably guilty of the crime ?” 

“The chauffeur, Tom. His name is Tom Cranbourne. 
For some reason of his own he determined to lay the 
guilt on—on the gentleman you allude to. And all this 
time Mrs. Ashcombe, and I think others, have felt con¬ 
vinced that the crime was committed by George Ash¬ 
combe who, as I say, has been dead quite a while. Mrs. 
Ashcombe was in terror all the time lest suspicion should 
come to rest upon him. It is my belief that she herself 
fired her cottage in order to destroy any traces of 
her husband that existed, or which she fancied might 
exist.” 

“Such as?” 

“Well, boot impressions on the floor of the room 
where the crime was committed, marks on the outside 
wall, and so forth.” 

“But why should the lady have thought her husband 
would do such a thing?” 

Jeffries hesitated. 

“That is a delicate question,” he said, “a question 
I would sooner not answer. There were certain reasons, 
or rather there was a certain reason. Miss Polly Ash¬ 
combe and the dead girl were not sisters. Miss Polly 
is a niece of Mrs. Ashcombe, who, however, cared for 
her as though the girl was her own daughter. For 
some mysterious reason Ashcombe was jealous of this 
adopted daughter, and Mrs. Ashcombe, I fancy, 
thought that in a fit of madness he attacked her—as the 
two girls were so much alike—and killed his own 
daughter Ella. That was Mrs. Ashcombe’s notion, I 


312 


THREE KNOTS 


fancy. I also charge Tom Cranbourne with the at¬ 
tempt on Mr. Marner’s life, and the murder of his 
motor-driver.” 

Again a wave of excitement swept over the 
Court. 

“Tom Cranbourne fostered a bitter hatred for Mr. 
Marner from the time that gentleman came to settle 
here,” he went on, speaking now more rapidly. “He 
told me that he meant one day to ‘get his own back,’ 
though I have no idea what for. And some days after 
that crime he as good as told me what he had done, 
knowing that I dared not speak. He was always of a 
boastful nature, and found it hard to conceal acts he 
felt proud of. You may remember that a bit of string 
with some peculiar slip-knots was found near the spot 
where the shots were fired. Tom Cranbourne is one 
of the few men I have ever met who could tie those knots. 
I believe they were shown to him by some natives in 
New Guinea, or by some of the Newfoundland sealers, 
who also use them.” 

Such was the gist of Jeffries’ confession. He ex¬ 
plained at length how Tom Cranbourne had for months 
past blackmailed him with threats, and how at last, 
driven to desperation, having hardly any money left, 
he tried to obtain some from Mrs. Jamieson, whose 
evidence in Court was a repetition of her statements 
made to the newspaper reporters the day after Jeffries’ 
arrest. One other point of interest, mentioned by 
Jeffries, was that one day while Cranbourne was driving 
him in Mrs. Ashcombe’s car—it was a very foggy day 
in November, he said—towards the cave on Haldon, 
they had met Gerald Grey, Irene Baxter and Yvonne, 
who asked Cranbourne to drive them back to 
Shadcombe. 


THE KNOTS UNTIED 


313 


“Tom Cranbourne had become suspicious about Mr. 
Grey and Miss Baxter, and one or two others,” Jeffries 
said. “He had got into his head the idea that they 
knew of the cave and had been to it, and he intended 
that day to try to find out for certain, by examining 
any footprints there might be in the cave, if his 
surmise were correct.” 

Not until next day was sentence upon Jeffries 
pronounced. Taking into consideration his frank 
confession, which had led at last to Ella Ashcombe’s 
murderer being identified, also to the fact of his having 
been blackmailed, his sentence was a light one—one 
year’s imprisonment. 

“Isn’t it extraordinary,” Mamer said that evening, 
as he walked with Yvonne along the Den, “that though 
retribution has overtaken my past associates, my luck 
in this respect has never deserted me? It was splendid 
of Jeffries not to betray me, seeing what he knows. 
I shall never forget that, and some day he will know 
what Wal Marner’s gratitude means.” 

She paused before replying, then she said: 

“But you will never run such risks again, will you, 
dear? Won’t you promise me that? I know you will 
keep any promise you make to me.” 

He laughed. 

“I feel so happy this evening,” he exclaimed, “that 
I will promise anything you like to ask me. Yes, I 
swear on oath to you that in future I will go straight— 
quite, quite straight, if only for your sake. Hark, what 
is that they are shouting?” 

The raucous-voiced man who sold the Evening 
Express and Echo was striding along towards them at 
a great pace. They stopped to listen. 


314 


THREE KNOTS 


“Suicide of a Shadcombe resident was what they 
heard. “Mr. Tom Cranbourne fownd shot at Hole 
Head this afternoon—Evening Express—Special 
Edition—Evening Express . . . /” 

























™. e ss;z t s nologies:,nc 

Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 











































































































